Beginnings
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Brief accounts of our musketeers at the start of season one and then moving forward; where beginning foundations launch close relationships; new adventures; and uncharted personal journeys. Chapter Twelve: Precarious beginnings of a well-earned commission sends d'Artagnan on a fevered journey where threads of the past join with the present, then reach out to an unknown future.
1. Chapter 1

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Brief accounts of our musketeers at the start of season one and then moving forward; where beginning foundations launch close relationships; new adventures; and uncharted personal journeys.

Chapter One: d'Artagnan starts his new life with a heavy heart, but with the help of Madame Bonacieux and the Inseparables gain the courage to move forward.

* * *

Chapter One: The Start of Something New

d'Artagnan didn't realize it had stopped raining until he released a breath unaware he was holding in. The steady, relentless pelting on the roof had kept him hostage throughout the night – battering noisily against the little house and in turn pummeling wounds still raw and open with sorrow. Now that it was quiet, he could breathe.

During the night, while he attempted to close his eyes to rest – get some much needed sleep to prepare for the new day – all he could see was his misery falling from dark clouds filled with unmitigated grief. The rain did not soothe him to slumber; but instead only served to aggravate his unsettled nerves.

Rolling over, he sat up slowly and threw the coverlet aside. Goose bumps formed quickly about his arms as the chilled pall in the room rolled down his spine, causing him to shudder. His aching ribs were on fire, but at least the pain distracted him from his sleepless night and how extremely tired he felt.

He sat for a moment to study the small space he would now call his home in Paris. The room was plain, simple – adorned with a bed, a small writing table beneath a window facing the street. A lone chair and a dresser to store his meager belongings sat against the far wall.

He was lucky to procure such a place; his only other option – to sleep in the loft above the stables at the musketeer garrison. With great relief, Madame Bonacieux's most generous offer of lodgings came just at the right moment – despite all the mayhem he had put her through. Smiling slightly, the thought of her auburn curls; dimpled cheeks; smooth bare shoulders and soft lips - pushed aside... briefly, the depression last night's shower had cast over what should have been considered an exciting day.

For this opportunity Captain Treville afforded him, was the start of life anew; a chance to move forward and begin again.

Tentatively, he stretched his bruised torso to test its limits and groaned. Daylight streaked through the curtains and captured dust particles in its wake, reminding him that he must get up from the bed, get moving and not waste time. In one of his fondest memories – he could hear clearly his father admonishing him for such idleness and chuckled with a tinge of melancholy.

Usually early morning hours brought him peace. But ever since death stole his only family – the early morning now brought him uncertainty. He had thought that at least today, of all days, he would feel more cheerful. Revenge had been achieved, his father's killer was dead by his own hand – so everything should look better; feel better, be better….right? Instead he felt a tired, weighted weariness that plagued every muscle and joint in his body.

A cool breeze traveled along through the floor boards and tickled at his bare feet and legs. He wiggled his toes, considered them sadly and sighed. Tired and weary on his first day. Was he to feel this way always; to have this sadness as his constant companion? This did not bode well.

This was to be the beginning of something new – something exciting – a new way of life. He scanned the room again and slumped his shoulders. If only father were here to share in it.

He leaned over, placed elbows at his knees and cracked a yawn. Shivering slightly, he rubbed roughly at his face. He needed to get moving – today was the first day of the rest of his life.

* * *

When he reached the kitchen, Madame Bonacieux met him with hands on her hips giving him the once over. It was as if she could see straight into his soul and read what was hidden there.

He felt the heat of her scrutiny reach his ears as she pulled out a chair at the table. "Come eat something before you head off", she offered with a warm smile.

d'Artagnan didn't feel very hungry, but he couldn't refuse the invitation to spend some time with her – even if was just for breakfast.

So he sat and watched as she retrieved warm biscuits from the oven and placed two on a plate before him slathered with honey. He smiled with appreciation and dug in, the lightness and sweetness of it lifting his spirits. Madame Bonacieux wiped her hands on her apron and smiled down at him – pleased.

She turned from him then, moving swiftly about; beginning her chores for the day. As she stoked the flames in her stove, she called over her shoulder. "Did you sleep well Monsieur? Was the room comfortable? Is there anything you need?"

When she turned to look at him, she noticed the dark smudges beneath his eyes. But before she could comment he answered, "Everything was fine. Thank you."

So she nodded politely and moved to draw the curtains open. Bright sunlight cascaded through and they both squinted at the brightness. She cracked the window to let some of the cold air in and the heat from the oven out – beads of sweat already forming on her forehead. "What a beautiful day", she exclaimed. "The rain has left a nice feel don't you think? Everything seems washed clean and fresh."

d'Artagnan nodded again and bowed his head, finishing off the last of his biscuits. The rain for him only served to leave behind pain and guilt.

A solemn pause permeated the warm cheery room. Today was to be her tenants first day as a recruit at the musketeer garrison. Shouldn't he be a little more excited? Maybe he wasn't well – his injury bothering him?

"How do you feel then?" she ventured to ask and moved toward him, unsure how much to push. She did not know him well, but already perceived a stubborn streak, and a strong sense of honor.

d'Artagnan looked to her earnest face, and wanted to answer her queries truthfully. How could he tell her that he wanted to feel happy, but his father was dead? That he wanted to be excited, but guilt and grief suppressed it just below his rib. He itched to draw his sword and learn from a master, but his limbs were heavy with exhaustion.

Yearning for this adventure was what got him through last night's tortuous memories of blood mixed with rain. Long held dreams of the pauldron on his shoulder; and of serving with the heralded musketeers, now choked thick beneath the lump in his throat.

He could not form the words to answer, so only stood to depart and get the day started.

Madame Bonacieux smiled up into that serious face, and oddly enough, wished he would share his thoughts with her. "Go on then", she shooed instead, stepped to the door and opened it wide. "Enjoy the day."

d'Artagnan nodded with respect and remembered his manners. "Thank you Madame", and crossed the threshold of her door out into the streets of Paris.

* * *

As he passed over into the garrison yard and left the side streets behind, d'Artagnan's heart beat with some apprehension and the fluttering in his stomach caused the sweet taste of honey to reappear in the back of his throat.

All around him men gathered in groups of comradery, waited below the balcony or ate at scattered tables set about the perimeter. He stood still – uncertain of what was expected, or which way to go.

Over the den of noise and whirl of activity, he heard someone shouting his name. "d'Artagnan!" Porthos called out and cleared a path toward him – a force of nature not to be deterred. "Good morning lad", he laughed and clapped a hand at his back.

The joyous welcome enveloped d'Artagnan like a warm blanket and calmed his nerves. He swallowed down the painful lump in his throat and genuinely grinned up at the big man. He shyly returned the greeting and let the imposing musketeer lead him over to a table where Aramis and Athos sat breaking fast.

"Come join us, sit down here. Have you eaten?" Porthos continued – pushing a tin of bread toward him.

He sat and held up his hands in concession. "Yes, I've eaten. Madame Bonacieux has fed me well." The three musketeers nodded in his direction and continued with their meal accompanied by raucous banter.

d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably in his seat; uneasy amongst their display of exuberance. And over time, felt Athos' eyes on him – regarding him openly with a curious expression. Suddenly he felt exposed – the redness of his eyes obvious; the exhaustion of his limbs evident; the pain of his injury visible and the grief in his heart laid bare.

Sighing heavily, he looked away from such close inspection, and stared warily out to the yard where musketeers practiced their trade with vigor. On his first day, he would not be able to function; lift a sword, fire a weapon – fight hand to hand. And Athos could see it all.

Captain Treville then called for muster from the balcony. The regiment of men moved as one to stand beneath and hear orders for the day. He heard through a haze the Captain order recruits to the shooting range, and felt Aramis turn him bodily and point him in the right direction.

As everyone made to move and go their separate ways, he felt anxiety grip his heart. Was this what he should do? Would his father approve? Should he not be tending to the farm? What was he doing here? This isn't where he belonged – not really. He should return home, to Lupiac, where things were familiar and safe.

When he came to himself and thought to leave – at his side Athos stood still and quiet. d'Artagnan bent his head and let his hair cover the crimson stains of embarrassment on his cheeks.

Athos laid a hand at his shoulder and squeezed with a firm grip. "Go begin the day d'Artagnan. Your father would be pleased."

d'Artagnan gasped in a shuddered breath and let a solitary tear break free from the corner of his eye and track down to his cheek. He had not let himself cry since that terrible day he held his father dying in the mud. When he swiped the wetness away – Athos had left his side, moving on to other things.

Frowning, he looked toward the garrison gate; toward Athos' retreating figure; and then to the shooting range – and there Aramis waved him over with a good natured gesture for him to hurry. He smiled freely then, and rushed to begin the start of something new.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please review and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Brief accounts of our musketeers at the start of season one and then moving forward; where beginning foundations launch close relationships; new adventures; and unchartered personal journeys.

Chapter Two: Eager to prove his worth d'Artagnan jumps at the chance to take down Vadim. And as Porthos and Aramis encourage our young Gascon, Athos feels the strings of attachment growing and worries that this scheme of Richelieu's could bring the beginning of d'Artagnan's career screeching to a halt.

* * *

Chapter Two: The Challenge

Saturday:

Athos stood respectfully at attention across from his Captain and waited for the order to be dismissed. The review of rosters; assignments and musketeer concerns had gone on for a few hours, and he was more than ready to find his friends and be in their good company.

His position as the Captain's second could at times be daunting, secretive or dangerous. However, if he were honest – most of the time the job consisted of tedious paperwork; mediation between musketeers; duty rosters; oversite of recruits, and recommendations for promotion.

The few hours a day he conferred with the Captain gave him a diverse perspective of the man, which lent itself to a profound respect for him, and what it took to run the garrison. To be a stern but fair leader of men, while simultaneously thinking of food stuffs; weaponry; livestock; and pay was commendable.

It was something he had no talent for, and often wondered what Treville saw in him. For he could think of several other good men who would fulfil the role of Lieutenant with esteemed reputation, and exalted quality of character – of which he had none. But still, the man had quite literally saved his life – so whatever he asked of him, he would do gladly.

Today's endeavor however had been tedious; reminded him of past duties regulated to his title of Comte, and served mainly to stir up memories he would rather have lay dormant.

He most definitely needed a drink.

"Before you go Athos, tell me how the recruits are progressing?" The unexpected request caught Athos off guard. His mind instinctively fell to d'Artagnan and felt a twinge of apprehension – like a stitch in his side. Instantly he dismissed the gut reaction of intuition, and forced a relaxed posture from his stance at attention.

It was a fair question for the Captain to ask.

"All but two I believe will make it past this winter", he answered, and wondered vaguely at the hair rising on the back of his neck. He rubbed their subconsciously, as a sense of unease manifested itself as tension at the base of his skull.

"All but two?" Treville queried.

Athos nodded. "Shepheard and Duboise – as of today, lack the physical stamina to keep up with their training let alone protect the King. But we shall see. What they lack in conditioning, they make up for in determination."

Frowning, Treville lowered his head and brought his fingers together as if in prayer. He tapped twin pointer fingers to his lips, deep in thought. "Of those who will make it through the winter, who do you see as our top four?"

Athos' heart skipped a beat, but he kept his face neutral and forced himself to breathe evenly. He had spent years perfecting an air of indifference, and displayed it now. But something in the Captain's query didn't sit well.

With his voice controlled and devoid of emotion he answered, "Renard, Jaquez, Marcus and d'Artagnan."

Captain Treville lifted an eyebrow. "In that order then?"

Athos studied his Captain's face and could glean no hint of what this could be about - the man more of a master at hiding his emotions than he.

"It depends", he spoke carefully, "on what skill you are assessing."

The Captain leaned forward and countered. "Then by the end of the week Lieutenant, I want you to let me know who the top recruit is. Report to me which of the four is the most rounded, reliable, and skilled adequately in all disciplines."

Athos' heart clenched, and he felt the muscle in his jaw jump with an unsteady beat that had his eye joining in. "May I ask for what purpose?" he ventured.

"I may have a special job for our top recruit. Please give me your report by Friday. The King will be interested in who you choose as well – along with our Minister of France."

Before Athos could determine more information, Treville stood; began rooting for some other responsibility on his desk, effectively ending the conversation. "You are dismissed", he added somewhat distracted.

Athos nodded – turned on his heels and left the office. For some moments he stood still outside the door, leaned over the railing and almost immediately – through the throng of controlled chaos which was musketeer life – zeroed in on d'Artagnan.

There he stood by the stables, the center of attention among several fellow recruits and musketeers alike – telling some story it seemed, as he was quite animated – arms gesticulating; smile wide. At one point during the tale, the group laughed with raucous disbelief. Athos quirked a small smile and knew that lately d'Artagnan had taken to repeating Porthos' and Serge's tall tales of adventures to the others.

The boy could not get enough of such stories, and at odd moments he would catch him underfoot in the kitchen or tagging behind Porthos almost begging to hear them.

Athos' brow furrowed in thought. He could not believe how time passed so quickly. Had it only been a few months since d'Artagnan joined their ranks? Had stormed his way into the garrison and embedded himself within all of their lives? Curiously, it seemed as if he had always been here. Over these months he noticed in d'Artagnan a measured progression from all consuming grief, to a sense of belonging, to now an abundance of confidence.

But still – beneath that confidence, he sensed anger. Understandable anger born from the hard truths life sometimes handed good men. If the boy could get out of his own way – he knew there were great things waiting in the future.

Watching him work the crowd, Athos sighed deeply with concern. d'Artagnan was a born leader; a raw but gifted swordsman; an adequate shot and thanks to Porthos a true brawler in a fight.

He looked back to the closed door of his Captain, and wondered what this was all about. d'Artagnan and the other recruits were all at the beginning – early stages of their training. What use could they possibly be outside of these walls to Treville – let alone the King and Minister of France?

* * *

Monday:

Of course this would be left for him to deal with. The Captain was in attendance at the Palace on musketeer business. Word was that a prisoner held in the Chatelet had stolen enough gun powder to start a small war and conspired to do just that. So it was up to him to deal with this matter before him.

Only he could not believe it. Just days ago, he had told Treville that these four – who stood now in front of him – were their best and brightest. Now there was this – fighting Red Guards in a tavern, wanton disregard for property, talk of a duel, and unapologetic to boot.

Athos rounded Treville's desk, leaned against the sturdy wood and faced the four young men. He wondered if this was how the Captain felt when addressing he and his comrades after a skirmish of some sort. The irony of it all did not escape him.

He was completely exasperated and finding it difficult to conceal, as each second ticked by. The mirth bubbling beneath the surface of Aramis and Porthos as they looked on in amusement only served to aggravate him more. His two friends, perched on nearby chairs passed knowing glances between themselves – pleased it seemed by his discomfort. Discomfort obvious to them, but unnoticed by the clueless recruits.

It was these two who had hauled the four here back to the garrison – having broken up the impressive altercation that left two Red Guards with broken bones, one threatening a duel and the drinking establishment in shambles.

He put their snickering aside and considered these young men. Bowing his head, he massaged his temples with some force, sighed deeply and studied them more closely with what he hoped was a menacing glare.

All four sported a disarray of clothing, bruised knuckles, and grim expressions. Only d'Artagnan held a posture of stiff anger, with a glint of steel in his eye – while the others shifted from foot to foot in discomfort under his scrutiny.

Not only did he exude pent up indignation, but sported a split lip, and a cut just below his left eye that still bled down his cheek. His hands were balled into white knuckled fists and he looked ready to storm out of the office, and head back to the tavern. Athos took note of his emotional state, and could not fathom what would have him so worked up.

Whatever went on, d'Artagnan continued to hold a grudge.

"So", he inquired, "tell me what happened."

Athos looked to the young recruits and observed how they all turned minutely to d'Artagnan for him to give the account. Unsurprised, Athos waited a beat, and then turned to him also.

d'Artagnan swallowed warily, bit his lip and winced as he aggravated the cut there. He took a steadying breath, stared out at a point over Athos' shoulder and began. "They disrespected the musketeers and tried to push us around, make us get their drinks – clean off their tables." The others nodded in agreement – heads bobbing up and down in perfect synchronization.

Athos nodded also. It was not unusual for other regiments to haze recruits outside of their discipline.

"This is why you were fighting in a public establishment?"

"One Red Guard in particular said things about the musketeers we didn't take kindly to", d'Artagnan reiterated with a distinct edge to his voice, and peered straight into his eyes. Athos flinched slightly and could only guess what was said. "But they struck the first blow, so we obliged them", d'Artagnan finished.

Athos lifted an eyebrow to his hairline. "You obliged them."

"Yes", d'Artagnan acknowledged, turned away; found his point somewhere on the wall; and kept his focus there. "Then one of them drew his sword, threw his glove at me, and challenged me to a duel."

Athos groaned and sat heavily in Treville's chair as Aramis tilted back in his own seat – pushing his hat to sit at the back of his head. He placed his feet atop the desk, and tutted between his teeth.

Porthos spoke up, "I believe that's about when we stepped in and defused the situation."

Athos faced his friend with an air of disbelief for defuse is not what he would call this. "Yeah, when that lot got a good look at us", he continued – pointing between he and Aramis, "his friends all but dragged him out of there. I don't think there will really be a duel."

"So you think", Athos replied with a tinge of incredulous exasperation to his voice. Soon his cool demeanor would be lost – if it wasn't already. Few people could bring him to this state - now it seemed so could d'Artagnan.

Athos returned his attention to the youths. "I am at a loss gentleman, and will of course turn this matter over to the Captain. In the meantime, clean yourselves up; dig down deep into your pockets and pay the innkeeper for his damaged property. You are dismissed." and made a shooing gesture toward the door.

As the four filed out to take their leave – Athos could not control the pull that had him reach out and grab a hold of d'Artagnan's arm. The grip was firm, and stopped him in his tracks. d'Artagnan turned to him – all anger dispelled; only anxiety now etched there across his brow with cheeks flushed red with self-consciousness.

He searched those brown eyes and wanted to say something profound with advice, or encouragement. They had all made mistakes – were still making them. This was his first major one as a recruit, and he would learn from this. It was only the beginning.

But the words would not come. He could only fix his gaze and see the earnestness there – d'Artagnan's need and true desire to be a musketeer. So he gripped his arm with what he hoped was reassurance, tapped his forehead gently with the heel of his hand to emphasize the use of good common sense and released him to the door.

"To the infirmary with you", he finally got out; and Aramis jumped to his feet, pulling the boy out the door; then calling over his shoulder, "I'll see to it." And they were gone.

Athos sat again at the Captain's desk, leaned his elbows there and clasped his hands together in thought. Porthos let the silence permeate the room for several moments and decided it was time to comment and let the truth of what happed at the tavern be known.

"You know he kept his temper pretty much in check until Monroe said something derogatory about your character. Something about….."

Athos put up a hand to stay the words. "There is no need to repeat Monroe's opinion of me. I have heard it directly from him on many an occasion; and on some points agree with him. However, we do hold a mutual disdain for one another."

Porthos nodded in agreement. "Then you know what got him so riled Athos. He thinks the world of you; believes you do no wrong; and gladly fights for your honor."

Athos sat back and pushed hair from his face. "Then he will be sorely disappointed I'm afraid. Fighting for my honor is a waste of time."

Porthos laughed aloud. "Not from where I'm sitting."

A pregnant pause filled the office. Porthos stood and addressed his friend, hat in hand with a serious expression. "You know who he reminds me of yeah?"

When he got no response, but for pressed lips and green eyed fire, he held out his arm and gestured for the door. "Let's go for a drink my friend."

* * *

d'Artagnan sat very still on the cot and let Aramis do what he did best – take care of his bumps and bruises. He didn't see why he was the only one being tended to in the chilly impersonal infirmary. But Athos had seemed insistent – so here he was.

Anger still burned beneath the surface – but not so hot now, and he wondered if he should have mentioned what the Red Guard Monroe had said. When the words spilled from the guard's mouth, all control had left him, and something akin to rage took over.

He couldn't explain it. He understood the shared hazing among the many different military disciplines – but this had gone beyond that and taken a personal turn – in the direction of blemishing Athos' good name and honor. Just thinking about it now made his skin prickle and neck flush with heat.

With his father now stolen from him – Athos was by far the most honorable man he knew. No one would speak ill of him in his presence – no one.

His thoughts were brought back to the present as Aramis clucked disparagingly over his red swollen knuckles. The resident medic frowned; swiped water dampened and wine stained cloth over the cut under d'Artagnan's eye – pressing down to stop the bleeding. d'Artagnan hissed dramatically at the sting, rolled his eyes with irritation and attempted to lean away from the burning sensation. Aramis held his chin firmly and laughed at his antics.

After a moment he pulled back the cloth and announced lightly, "I think you will live" and began putting away his supplies.

The quiet in the room felt unnatural to d'Artagnan and he set about filling the space with hidden concern. "Do you think he was very disappointed?" he asked with some trepidation, and rubbed his sore fingers together nervously.

Aramis turned to the youth and offered up an easy smile. He noticed the change in demeanor from bottled up anger to anxious worry and knew then that d'Artagnan had no idea of his effect on Athos and was pretty sure Athos didn't know either.

So he laughed inwardly and sat next to the boy. "Did you not hear all he said? I mean all he said to you?"

d'Artagnan lowered his head, and dabbed carefully at his small injury. He thought back on the events in Treville's office, and looked to Aramis with a sigh. "He didn't really say anything to me."

Aramis placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "In his own way, he tried to explain that we all make mistakes; and this one was a doozy. The fight was unnecessary, let alone expensive and that dueling is a dangerous endeavor that leads to nothing good."

d'Artagnan turned to Aramis and creased his brow. "I don't remember him saying any of that." Aramis laughed good naturedly. "Perhaps not – but that's what he said all the same."

"Well", he thought aloud, "Athos doesn't make mistakes. I'm not like him at all. I must work harder on controlling my temper. He has said as much in the past."

Aramis chuckled and stood from the cot. "Athos not make mistakes? Well my friend, we are in acquaintance with two different men. You, I would guess, see him through a lens of admiration and I through the lens of brotherhood."

d'Artagnan met his gaze with a fierce stare, so he ruffled his hair with fond intent. "One day, you will see the man."

* * *

Saturday Next:

Athos stood before Captain Treville and the Minister of France, with hat in hand and blue cloak adorned about his shoulders. Here within the Minister's private offices, he felt somewhat uncomfortable and out of his element.

Everything here was clean, polished, pristine and impeccably organized. He could see his reflection coming at him up from the floor and wondered at the manpower to make it so. Cardinal Richelieu dressed all in black, with his back straight and face still as stone, exuded power and pompous righteousness.

The curt and stringent greeting he received upon entering the room had him on edge.

Athos had always seen Richelieu as a complicated and duplicitous man who he would not trust as far as he could throw him, let alone with his life. But what he lacked in trustworthiness – he made up for in his loyalty to his King and to France.

So he waited respectfully across from both men to here why he was summoned. When Treville lifted his report from the overly organized desk of the Cardinal, his heart sank right down to his belly. It took every ounce of control he could muster to regulate his breathing. Whatever was going on here – d'Artagnan was right in the middle of it.

Treville's voice cut through the thick fog descending over his brain and brought him back to the room. "We have read your report Athos and it seems our top recruit is d'Artagnan. You speak well of his skill and find him - in your words – beyond loyal."

Athos spoke with a deliberate calm. "He is raw, but promising."

Richelieu moved from behind his desk, took center stage and cut to the chase. "The Red Guard has arrested a miscreant by the name of Vadim, who sits now waiting for death by haning in the Chatelet. Intelligence gathered suggests he has stolen large quantities of gun powder – for a reason as of now is unknown. We understand that he has enough of this powder to start a small war or at best incite insurrection."

"And you want the help of the musketeers."

Treville nodded. "If we can send in one man to gather information, perhaps gain the man's confidence, we may yet learn his plans, what others play a part in this plot, and where he has stored the gun powder."

Athos stepped back as if punched in the gut. "You want to send in d'Artagnan." He looked between the two men and intending to impress his opinion spoke with authority. "He is not ready – another should do this. I will go."

Richelieu tilted his head and bore his icy stare into Athos. "We need someone this Vadim will not suspect as a Musketeer or a Red Guard."

Challenge crept into Athos' voice as he pressed forward. "So you would choose an inexperienced farm boy from Lupiac, and use me as your conduit?"

Richelieu moved in close and stood in Athos' personal space, both men holding their ground. "On your sterling report of his character, loyalty and skill – yes. He sounds like just the man we need."

The two stood toe to toe refusing to be the first to break eye contact. For several moments Treville could swear the temperature in the room dropped to freezing. He placed a hand on his Lieutenant's shoulder and pulled him back and away. "d'Artagnan's participation is an acceptable risk. But let us put the decision to d'Artagnan and see how he answers."

Richelieu turned away and moved to sit at his desk. Athos looked to his Captain and relaxed under his steady hand. "He will answer yea, as he is eager to serve his King."

After a brief pause to steady his resolve he continued, "How do you propose to have d'Artagnan imprisoned, and placed in close enough proximity to have access to Vadim?"

Richelieu studied Athos with a slight sneer to his lips. "I understand Monroe has challenged your young Gascon to a duel. If this goes forward, it may be our chance to have him placed side by side with this condemned Vadim. The King has made it law – that dueling is now a hangable offence."

Athos looked to his superiors – his heart heavy with dismay. Things had been decided before he even entered the room. It was out of his hands.

* * *

Athos left the palace hours ago, and since then had met up with his friends and reviewed the plan several times, here at the back table of their favorite watering hole.

Now in these early hours, with barmaids sweeping and washing down tables, he sat quietly with them - the noise of tavern gayety all but reduced to drunken murmurs. Not many patrons were left, as soon the sun would rise, and morning would be upon them. Most of Paris would be at rest, and have no knowledge of the great risk d'Artagnan and the musketeers would take on behalf of their sovereign in just a few hours.

Thirst getting the better of them, d'Artagnan moved toward the three with a full tankard of wine in hand and filled each of their empty cups to the brim. He smiled brilliantly and sat across from Athos bursting with energy and pride in his recent accomplishment.

He would duel, get arrested, plant himself in the good graces of Vadim and get the information King Louis needed to stop an insurrection. How hard could it be?

To Athos' dismay, the more he went over details, the more he stressed safety; not to antagonize the prison guards; to be vigilant – keep to himself; address Vadim only – the more d'Artagnan become increasingly energized.

He continued to point out that this was not an adventure. "Your life depends on making quick decisions; and to trust no one", he reiterated for what seemed like the hundredth time. And it didn't help that Aramis and Porthos were excited with him.

d'Artagnan heard everything Athos tried to impart – but he could not help but to smile. How very proud he was to be chosen. He hoped his father looked on him now and saw his good works. That his due diligence, focus and practice had paid off. That staying had been the right decision. That soon he might gain his commission.

"If you don't stop smiling like that, your cheeks will crack", Porthos chortled with humor.

d'Artagnan took a sip of his wine. "Can't I be happy? This is my chance you know, to prove my worth. To show what I can do. I want to show you; Treville; and the King that I can be a true musketeer."

Aramis looked sideways to Athos and could feel the tension radiating from his body. He had not been pleased with the choice of d'Artagnan or the plan.

Athos ground out through clenched teeth, "You don't need to prove anything. This is musketeer business and…"

"I am in training to be a musketeer", he declared. "What better way…."

"To what – get yourself killed?" Athos interrupted with force.

d'Artagnan looked to Aramis and Pothos for support – his eyes almost pleading. Porthos took the bait. "I think he can do this Athos."

"He is resourceful, and you yourself said his work with a sword is much improved", Aramis chimed in.

Athos stood abruptly to his feet and peered across the table down into d'Artagnan's eyes. He only saw there honesty, integrity, the will to have all of his dreams come true – believing this wild scheme would do it for him.

The fear in his belly threatened to erupt from his throat as bile at any moment. If he did not leave soon, he would say or do something he did not mean. But if d'Artagnan lost his life because he was still – said nothing – then what?

d'Artagnan gazed up at his mentor confused. Did not he say that he was dependable, loyal, skilled – so many other things that his chest swelled with pride. Captain Treville had read him the report. Why was Athos acting like this? Why didn't he trust him?

Athos took one final look down at this boy who was fast becoming entrenched in his life and effectively skewing his judgement. He turned away quickly to hide his consternation.

"We meet at the arranged meeting place for your duel at dawn. Do not be late", and left the tavern without looking back, his body stiff with worry. Dawn – he thought to himself. Dawn would be the beginning of what? Would it be the beginning of a successful mission or the beginning of the end of a promising future?

He could feel three sets of eyes boring into his back – but kept moving. He needed to be alone; try and understand what invisible thread connected him with d'Artagnan so strongly.

d'Artagnan grabbed at his neck to massage the tension there, and stood to follow, but found himself firmly placed back in his seat by Porthos' strong hand. "I would leave him be. You'll see him in a few hours."

d'Artagnan frowned and wondered at the overwhelming connection and need he had for the man's liking and watched him exit the tavern. He felt his excitement and chance of proving himself to Athos drain from his body and slip through his fingers. What could he do to have him trust his abilities and be proud of this achievement?

Well soon he would begin that journey. He would gain the man's approval if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

Dawn:

Overnight a light snow had fallen and the woods just outside Paris took on a hushed, gloomy gray hue. The sun, obscured by darkened clouds left the scene of bare tree limbs and frozen earth feeling eerily surreal. The clearing they stood in opened to a stiff breeze that pushed the hair from d'Artagnan's face, through his coat; and had him shivering.

The air was crisp with frost which had his friends, who stood close by, swinging their arms, stamping their feet and attempting to blow warmth from their mouths into frigid hands.

d'Artagnan removed his coat, weapons belt and jumped up and down in place to get his blood pumped up enough to warm his skin. Across the path Monroe and his seconds looked his way and smirked with arrogant grins.

d'Artagnan swished his sword in a tight arc and smiled back – ready to wipe the self-satisfied smugness from their faces. Even though this duel was part of the plan – Monore didn't need to know it. He would engage this man, win the duel, and make him take back what he said about Athos – there was no doubt about it.

Athos stood to the side, and watched this young man ready himself for this most dangerous of missions. The Chatelet was a place he would not wish on his worst enemy; and Vadim by all accounts was a hardened criminal who murder he would not put past.

He felt pride at d'Artagan's fearlessness, but wished he had the right words that would dissuade him from continuing down this path – for someone else to go in his stead; but words were not his strength.

His gut screamed at him to grab d'Artagnan by the nape of the neck, and drag him, kicking and screaming if need be, back to the garrison and safety. The crunch of snow beneath his boots, and the giddy encouragement to d'Artagnan from his brothers woke him to the here and now.

With rest eluding him, he had debated with himself all night on what to do. Realization hit him an hour before the appointed time of their meeting that d'Artagnan had come to mean something to him. That he cared what happened to the boy and did not wish him to be harmed.

But on his way here, he had concluded that d'Artagnan had a mind of his own. So he would make one final push for him to see reason; to change his mind – to see that there would be other opportunities that he need not leap at this one.

So when he moved to his side, he voiced softly so the others wouldn't hear, and appealed one last time. "You don't have to do this. This is musketeer business."

d'Artagnan turned to him, and smiled brightly with anticipation. "I can handle this" he pronounced in a clear, confident voice; and pushed the challenge glove in his hand.

Athos let out a weary breath, moved from his side and readied himself to throw down the glove of challenge – to set the wheels of this enterprise into motion. When the glove hit the snow cover ground with a soft thud, d'Artagnan surged forward to begin.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! This chapter got a little wordy – so I hope it's okay. Please leave a review to let me know what you think! Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: In the aftermath of spoiling Vadim's plans – memories are scattered, but the beginnings of brotherhood bring the pieces back together.

* * *

Chapter Three: Wake Up

When he became aware and was finally conscious, d'Artagnan did not know where he was. Everything hurt and his vision would not cooperate.

Had he done something ridiculous once again - climbed that tree out in the meadow and fallen to earth? How many times had his father admonished him for climbing the great heights of the magnificent oak? It was something he loved to do, feel the wind in his face; scan out over the horizon and search beyond the confines of Lupiac. But it was something his father discouraged – repeating on several occasions how dangerous the act was; and how close to losing his life he had actually come.

He groaned and felt every muscle, twitch with a painful tingle. He moved his head ever so slightly and…owe, even his hair hurt.

"Pere", he croaked out and coughed. His mouth felt dry as cotton and his throat ached along with the rest of him. The cough pulled at his ribs, which felt like broken glass floating around his insides. As he attempted to roll over to his side a firm hand fell to his shoulder and stilled his efforts.

He flinched away from the touch and his shoulder exploded as if on fire. Fire, something about fire and explosions niggled at the back of his mind, but he dismissed it. His father would be furious. This would be the third time he had climbed that tree, fallen from its limbs and hurt himself.

The conversation this time would be brutal, he was sure of it. Alexander d'Artagnan did not suffer foolish behavior multiple times. He would try and head him off, appease his ire before too much time passed. Pere was a hard man to please when he was truly angry.

When he opened his eyes fully - the wavy contours of the room spun in circles and he shut his eyes tight to stave off the dizzying sensation. A sour taste prickled at the back of his throat and he quickly swallowed it down. Throwing up would not help his cause.

Voices swirled around him and bombarded him with piercing sound that spiked arrows through his brain. If everything would just be quiet, still – he could get himself together and apologize.

He opened his eyes again. Everything was hazy; people were moving around him – people he didn't recognize. This was not home, his room or his bed. Where was his father? He could hear people around him crying – groaning in pain.

When he sat up to investigate, strong hands pushed down at his shoulders. "You must lay still young man, so that I can help you."

d'Artagnan stilled, and looked up into the worried face of an elderly gray haired man. "Who are you? Where am I? Where is my father?" he asked in quick succession. Startling blue eyes looked down at him with understanding. "You are in the infirmary at the musketeer garrison."

Garrison? What was this man going on about? Where was his father? Was he gone mad?

He sat up again with purpose, holding onto to the pain in his ribs and ignored the fiery, tingling sensation in his shoulder.

"Pere", he called out scanning the room from where he sat. Multiple eyes of men, women, and children turned his way – all with varying degrees of fear and pain etched on their faces.

"What's happened?", he asked the kind eyed man.

"There was a skirmish after the Easter Mass at Notre Dame. Many people as you can see were injured. An explosion near by collapsed an underground tunnel not far from here, and some people at the palace were hurt. You were carried here by some friends. I'm one of the physicians here, Doctor Gerard."

Explosion – skirmish – what was the man talking about? He had fallen from the tree near his home, and his father would be furious again. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, but it only managed to ratchet up the pain behind his eyeballs. In turn, he promptly leaned to the side of the cot and vomited right into the bowl Dr. Gerard deftly held beneath his mouth.

Doctor Gerard touched his shoulder with care. "You need to lay back down and rest."

d'Artagnan swiped clean his mouth and hopped from the cot. He moved slowly away from the good doctor and began to weave his way through the throng of people seated on makeshift pallets, chairs and even on the floor.

The doctor rushed after him, and grabbed for his arm. "Please young man – you have multiple injuries; comeback….."

Legs trembling beneath him, d'Artagnan broke out into a sweat; and crumpled to the ground without warning. Panic rose up from his belly as his heart raced in time with the pounding in his head. Where was his father? "Pere!" he called out again.

* * *

Aramis heard the ruckus before he saw it.

When he stood from stitching the arm of the child before him, he was met with the sight of d'Artagnan on the ground, screaming at the top of his lungs, and Doctor Gerard hovering over him, trying to help the boy to his feet.

He pat little Rebecca's head, and smoothed down her dark curls. "You're going to be fine", he assured – looked to her mother; smiled and moved toward the quickly escalating scene a few cots down. "What's happened?" he asked Doctor Gerard, as he approached.

"He's disoriented. I'm not sure he understands what's happened."

Aramis bent down on his haunches and faced d'Artagnan with concern. Holding him firmly about the cheeks, he peered into his eyes and saw pupils blown up wide, like large black circles - with a glazed over expression in them.

"Come", he coaxed – beginning to stand, "let's get you back to bed d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan grabbed hold of his forearms, and pulled him back down to eye level. He searched his face – this man seemed so familiar but…."Do you know me sir? Tell me, why am I here? Where is my father?"

Aramis drew in a sharp breath, and looked up at the doctor. They spoke to each other wordlessly, both knowing symptoms of a head injury when they saw it. "Have someone send for the musketeers Athos and Porthos", he urged sharply, "Quickly – and I'll take it from here with this patient."

Aramis turned, then gazed into the eyes of the confused boy in front of him; and pet his cheek. "Let me help you – yes?" He stood then, reached down under his arms, and pulled d'Artagnan to his feet. d'Artagnan nodded and with the room dipping and swaying beneath him– let this helpful stranger take him back to his cot.

"Are you a doctor?" he asked, holding on tight. The arm pressed across his shoulders holding him up was steady; strong and secure. His knees buckled; but the man did not let him fall.

"No. I am Aramis", he answered with a bit of hesitation. "I have a small amount of knowledge about medicine – so I help out here in emergencies. This is an emergency."

He paused to gauge d'Artagnan's reaction. When he saw none, he continued. "I'd like to see how you are doing." He laid d'Artagnan carefully down on the cot, and smiled down into his anxious face. "May I take a look at you?"

d'Artagnan nodded with care. His head hurt so bad, and why was his vision so off – as if he were looking through thick unfinished glass?

Aramis felt through d'Artagnan's hair and noted the lump at the back of his skull; and the cut – just at his hairline near his temple. He could see that Doctor Gerard had already cleaned the area and there seemed no need for stitches.

With light, nimble fingers – he traveled down d'Artagnan's neck to his shoulders. The boy hissed, and pulled away. "Your shoulder was dislocated", he explained. "The doctor has corrected that. It will be sore for a while, but in time it should feel better."

When he reached d'Artagnan's ribs, he felt shifting movement there. d'Artagnan bit his lip and groaned. He pulled up his shirt and sucked in a breath. "Oh Dios mio", he exclaimed with worry and a catch in his throat. "Well you definitely have a broken rib or two here." Aramis skimmed over the area along his ribs, side and lower back lightly; trying not to cause any more undue pain. The bruising suggested a terrible beating – unrelated to the explosion they all survived. What had d'Artagnan been through while in the clutches of Vadim?

When he looked up from his examination, Porthos was at his side – staring down at the damage to d'Artagnan's body.

The big man frowned, and then looked to his good friend. "You sent for me?" he asked, concern in his voice. When his gaze fell on d'Artagnan looking up at him with a curious expression – he announced, "I see our boy is awake now!" and placed a hand atop his head in fondness.

Just hours ago he had bodily carried d'Artagnan into the garrison gates, his collapse at the explosion site taking them all by surprise. But looking now at the abuse on d'Artagnan's body he understood. It was good to see the boy awake.

d'Artagnan could not take it another second. People here seemed to know him, but would not answer the simplest of questions. So he reached up and grabbed a hold of the man's shirt in front of him, and pulled him down so they could speak face to face. "You seem to know me sir. Could you please tell me where my father is?"

Porthos stared into d'Artagnan's eyes, confused at this turn of events. "Do you not know me whelp? It is I – Porthos. And your father…."

Aramis gripped his arm to still the words; and instead asked, "Where is Athos?"

"He is with the Captain reporting to the King and Cardinal about this whole mess."

d'Artagnan made to move. "I'm tired of waiting for answers", he declared to the two men standing above him.

Aramis chuckled with warmth, and pushed him carefully back down onto his back. "I can see that. Tell you what, let's get you something for the pain; settle you a bit more comfortably and see if we can answer your questions."

d'Artagnan studied these unfamiliar, yet familiar faces and wondered at his ease among men he did not know. He nodded in agreement; relaxed back onto his pillow, and allowed the two to take care of him.

* * *

Riding back to the garrison, Athos examined his hands with a peculiar expression. There beneath his nails was d'Artagnan's blood and on his coat settled the dust and dirt of ruined tunnels. For the briefest of moments he had thought d'Artagnan dead. The well of loss had been great for someone he had known for such a short time. And when found alive – the elation ….. a curious wonder.

His mind flashed to Vadim lying dead on the harbor rocks, d'Artagnan standing over him with a puzzled expression on his face, then crumpling to the ground by some invisible force. The last he saw the boy – Porthos had been carrying him into the garrison gates – limbs loose and swaying with each heavy footstep.

Alongside them, a stream of Parisians filed into the gates; wounded, hurt, frightened citizens looking for help after attempted assassination on the streets and explosions erupting from the ground. Before he could make his way to the infirmary with them, he was being summoned and pulled away to present himself before the King, the Minister of France, and Captain Treville.

The hours holed up in the palace had passed slowly as he mouthed the harrowing events of the last few days. But while he gave his account and stood at attention, his mind was continuously on d'Artagnan. The boy had come through in the end and had surpassed his expectations. Above all, he had not gotten himself killed; fulfilled his mission and was now on the King's radar – perhaps even for his commission.

A sense of pride burned within him, and he could not help but smile and give his account of the boy's deeds with a hint of favoritism.

As he crossed over the threshold, it seemed to him the normal bustle of garrison activity had exploded into a frenzy. People were everywhere waiting to be seen by a physician, or for Serge to touch ladle to bowl with hot stew.

Dismounting, he turned his mount over to a harried Jacques – then brushed the dirt and dust from his clothing and removed his hat to stare up at the receding sun. It had been a long day – no an agonizingly long week. A week of intrigue and constant worry of wondering if he had done the right thing in letting d'Artagnan continue on with the mission. He had almost been killed; and it would have been his fault.

Suddenly Claude was at his side waiting to be acknowledged.

"What is it Claude?" he asked, his voice weary – ready to get out of these clothes; remove the filth and see his friends.

"Aramis is asking for you to come quickly to the infirmary."

Athos' heart drummed loudly in his ears; and his mind immediately fell to d'Artagnan. Had the young man been more injured than previously thought? He had assumed exhaustion when the boy collapsed earlier. But maybe there was something else amiss.

He raced to the infirmary and upon entering the room was assaulted by the chaotic noise of pain and apprehension. The sheer number of people who had been injured due to Vadim's egotistical, arrogant scheme of revenge by robbery was overwhelming.

At the back of the room, he located Aramis and Porthos and moved in their direction – zig zagging through the maelstrom. When he reached their sides, he saw d'Artagnan lying still between them – his left arm strapped to his body; and ribs wrapped with linen. He looked pale; frail; and very young.

He took a breath to calm his nerves, and stepped closer. "How is he?"

"Bruised, beaten and battered; with a nasty concussion", Aramis answered succinctly. "A lot more went on with him than we thought Athos, but I believe with rest he will recover."

Athos heard much between the lines and nodded.

Porthos spoke up, "He doesn't know us; or remember anything about Vadim. He keeps asking for his father and going on about some tree."

Aramis squeezed the Gascon's arm and turned to his friends, "His memory should return. This sometimes happens with head injuries. In the meantime – we have given him something for pain; and now he sleeps." He turned away then and surveyed the room. "I need to help the doctors here – we are overrun with frightened people."

Porthos placed a hand on Athos' shoulder. "I'm part of the detail of men to return and clear out the rubble at the tunnels."

Nodding, Athos pulled off his dusty coat; placed his hat on the side table; released his weapons belt from around his hips and nodded, "I'll stay here with him", and sat down in the nearby chair to wait.

* * *

When d'Artagan ascended from sleep, a vague dream of his father making him promise not to risk his life climbing that dam tree again broke up and drifted away; as did the man. He reached out to keep the pieces of him together and whispered, "I'm sorry Pere", and opened his eyes.

The quiet slow breathing of sleep; and low murmurs of reassurances and pointed groans of pain reached his ears. The room itself was dim, as many candles at each bedside chased shadows into ink black corners.

He blinked; pressed his eyes closed; took inventory of his body – and realized he felt much better. His head no longer pounded like a hammer, and his body instead of screaming at him; whispered its aches and pains at a tolerable level.

Turning to his right he noted a man seated next to him – the green of his eyes penetrating through the grayness of the room and watching him with stoic calm.

d'Artagnan swallowed, then licked his lips; and frowned at the stranger who lifted his head and put a cup of cool water to his lips. He drank greedily and sighed with relief when laid back down to his straw pillow.

"Thank you", he croaked out and scrutinized the man with interest. A sudden sense of safety washed over him, and so he turned slightly on his side facing the man.

Athos nodded and resumed his seat. "Do you know where you are?"

"I'm still in the infirmary at the musketeer garrison. Do I know you?"

Athos leaned back in his chair and quirked a slight smile. "Yes – you do."

Many thoughts ran through d'Artagnan's mind, but one thing he thought he might be sure of, he asked about anyway. "My father is dead isn't he?"

Athos sighed, and answered without hesitation. "Yes."

d'Artagnan felt his throat constrict; his lips tremble and let a tear fall from the corner of his eye. Deep down he had known it to be true. He took in a shuddered breath; wiped the tears away swiftly and considered the man seated next to him. He looked weary, tired, dirty – his hair wild and dusty. Dried blood at his temple drew his attention.

"You are hurt sir", he pointed out – his voice shaking with sorrow.

Athos reached for the sore spot just at his hairline. "It's nothing. Tell me – how do you feel?"

d'Artagnan answered truthfully. "I feel better - just lost and unclear as to why I'm here and what happened to my father."

Athos leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. "Would you like me to tell you what happened?"

d'Artagnan turned away from that piercing gaze which seemed to read his emotions, and stared up to the ceiling. "I thought I had climbed the tree in the meadow, and fallen ….again. That he would be angry and lecture me on my recklessness. He keeps thinking I want to get myself killed." He turned to Athos then, almost pleading. "But that's not it. I just want to see what's beyond home. That's all."

After some moments of silence between them, d'Artagnan continued in a pained whisper. "Is it my fault he's dead?"

Athos pulled his chair in close and gripped his good shoulder. "No it wasn't your fault." d'Artagnan nodded and let the tears escape freely. Patting his arm with care, Athos stood from his seat. "You should rest now", and began to gather his hat, coat, and weapons.

Suddenly overwhelmed with uncertainty, d'Artagnan reached out and grabbed onto his shirttails, an unnatural fear overcoming him. To be left alone here in this place did not appeal to him. "Do you think you could stay sir –at least until I fall back to sleep?" He wasn't sure what to expect; but the man turned to him, and the warmth about his face had him relaxing with relief.

Replacing his items; and retaking his seat – Athos nodded and answered fondly, "Yes of course."

d'Artagnan looked upon the man seated at his side; and felt as if he had always known him. "Are we good friends then?" he asked, as his eyes blinked slowly and he felt his body being dragged down into sleep.

Unsure how to answer, Athos moved from his chair and sat up on the cot at his side - hip to hip with the young man and peered down into drooping brown eyes. He wasn't so sure yet of friendship, but he knew one thing for certain; this boy had come to mean something to him. He feared for his safety; felt pride in his bravery; relished in his training; doled out advice and felt invigorated when arguing out a point. He had brought something lost back into his life. Could this possibly be friendship so soon after meeting?

Before he could articulate an answer, d'Artagnan was asleep – breathing deep and heavy; a minute crease in his forehead. So he brushed wayward bangs from his brow; reached for his hand and squeezed tight; assuring him that he would be here in the morning to greet him.

In that state between wakefulness and sleep, d'Artagnan felt the man take hold of his hand; sensed supportive comfort and drifted down securely into slumber. He would find out soon enough what happened to his father - the pain of such knowledge weighted heavily on his chest; but for now he felt safe in the company of a friend. A friend whose name he had forgotten to ask.

When next he woke, the candles about the large room had been snuffed out; windows stood wide open with sunshine and fresh air poured in on the wave of a slight breeze. When he scanned the area, the infirmary bustled with movement and noise; and three men sat close by in hard unforgiving chairs – their heads bowed in uncomfortable sleep.

He reached out his hand and touched the knee closest to him and shook with some strength, "Athos", he called out, "wake up."

* * *

Thank you for reading Chapter Three. I hope you enjoyed this – as it got a bit long. Please leave a review to let me know what you think! Thank you to all of you who have already reviewed; read; favorited and are following this story. It means a lot.


	4. Chapter 4

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: On the way to La Harve to collect a self-proclaimed criminal and trader of stolen goods; the past comes back to haunt Athos, endanger his brothers and threatens to derail the musketeer's mission before it even gets started.

* * *

Chapter Four: Journey

Everything seemed so clear from up here – sharp and in focus. The sky was never so blue, the clouds a stark pristine white – the sun bright; but not blindingly so. Jasmine permeated the air. Everything was perfect.

He felt the breeze hit his face and smiled at the force of it, as his hair whipped about and tickled his cheeks. Excitement bubbled up from his toes; traveled uninhibited to his throat; and he let it out – yelling happily to the top of his voice.

The echo of his joy spread out beyond Lupiac – all the way to Paris – he was sure of it; unsettling the birds along the way as they soared out away from the great oak and raced to overtake the vibrations of his outburst.

When had he ever felt such freedom? He could step away from these swaying limbs right now, and fly over this great expanse with ease; leap from his constraints and take on the world.

Suddenly beneath his feet the limb shifted with his weight and snapped. Joy transformed to terror as he plummeted swiftly down toward the earth. His attempts at catching hold of the sturdy tree to stop his descent was for naught. His father's stern warnings reverberated around him, and all he could answer back was "I'm sorry Pere."

When he hit the ground, explosions rocked the earth; and the heat of flames rose up to block his path to safety. Through the shadows a dark haired woman scrutinized him; Vadim flipped his coin – laughed at his inexperience and the golden currency vanished into thin air. The illusion of such a trick caused him to frown in consternation. Was he looking in the wrong direction?

His head swiveled back and forth between the two apparitions.

When he opened his eyes with a start, Porthos was sitting across from him – poking the camp fire with a stick. Kindling imploded and the flames rose up from the pit, casting an orange glow that pushed the darkness and her hidden minions out toward the tree line. Porthos gazed knowingly at him, and leaned over to speak to him in hushed tones. "You were dreaming."

d'Artagnan nodded, frowned in confusion at his scattered dream; rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. He shivered slightly as the cool breeze rustled by – but knew mostly that he shivered because of the disturbing dream, and not the weather.

He sighed and thought his mind played tricks on him. His memory of that first mission at best was sketchy and when he dreamed of Vadim, the unease usually lasted for hours afterwards. Now, the lady of his brief encounter joined the mix; and a foreboding sense of dread wrapped itself around him.

For the life of him, he could not remember the details of that fateful week. His body for months, in its wake, bore the marks of what took place; but no matter how hard he pressed to remember – it wouldn't come to him.

Only snippets showed themselves in his sleep or at odd waking moments – where a spoken word; a sound, smell or a scene before him would conjure up a vague remembrance and jog a recollection loose.

Over time, the fragments he did happen to piece together, served only to leave him fearful of enclosed, small spaces and oddly enough fearful of losing the three men who unselfishly nursed him back to health. He sighed deeply and scooted back from the pit – pulling his cloak tight about his shoulders.

He knew Vadim to be dead.

Apparently, he had some part in it he could not remember. But in his dreams, the man's laugh was close to his ear and the mocking sound of his voice always left him feeling insecure – unworthy somehow. The musketeers assured him of his heroism; and bravery – but for all their kind words and praise – he could not shake the feeling of failure.

He pulled his hair at the roots and groaned in frustration. He was missing something important.

"One day – it will all come back to you." Porthos whispered out to him.

d'Artagnan shook his head and peered out into the darkness, looking for … solace?

"And if it doesn't?" he asked sincerely.

Porthos thought for the briefest of moments on the earnest question and answered bluntly. "Then it won't."

d'Artagnan looked about the camp and saw the horses tethered close by. The dark, cloudy sky obscured the few stars he could make out along with the half hidden moon. Aramis slept soundly beneath a gnarly tree – his hat covering his face. Light snoring drifted over the night noises of creatures calling out to one another.

He searched past the sleeping form of his friend; further out through the flames; beyond the pit and out toward the trees. Porthos answered his unspoken question with warmth, "He is out walking the perimeter."

d'Artagnan could only nod wearily; and wondered about the man who showed such care for his wellbeing – but had little to say on the subject. Whose actions of sleepless nights at his bedside; cool cloths at his fevered brow; and gentle care of his basic needs, much to his embarrassment, spoke volumes.

Some months had passed since the whole Vadim incident. A chilly spring that had brought uncharacteristic snow – now segued into a hot sticky summer. Recovery for his body was complete – accept for a twinge every now and then at his shoulder, which reminded him of the dislocation there.

It was his mind that could not rest- that kept trying to find that missing piece between being discovered as a plant among Vadim's men and finding himself in the infirmary.

Vadim's death; the arrest of his followers; the recovery of the royal jewels – all seemed a dream come true at the time. Treville's respect, his fellow recruit's awe at his achievement; under the tutelage of the Inseparables, was everything he could have hoped for.

Only he couldn't remember all of it – and the missing gaps were driving him to distraction. He looked over again across at Porthos and smiled thinly, grateful to be recovered, out from under the watchful eyes of Dr. Gerard and Aramis. He was happy for their good care of him, but now gladder to be released – given the opportunity once again to be about musketeer business and prove his worth.

This time, he would do it right.

They would track their man to one of the ports he would most likely enter – arrest him for breaking France's trade treaty; and bring him back to Paris to face his crimes before the King and the Minister of France.

Porthos studied the myriad of emotions that crossed the gambit on d'Artagnan's face. Though he recognized determination, what he saw most was uncertainty. An uncertainty embedded in the unknown. Something traumatic definitely took place while with Vadim; and at times like this he wished d'Artagnan could let it lie; but knew such hope was futile.

So instead he imparted uncomplicated advice. "Get some rest d'Artagnan. Tomorrow we journey to the Port of Rouen. If Bonnaire is not there – we travel on to La Harve."

d'Artagnan lay down, and turned his back to the fire. Porthos was right. He should rest; clear his mind so that he would be ready for what comes next. Aramis lifted his hat; peered from beneath the brim, and shrugged his shoulders in Porthos' direction. They shared a brief worry for their pup between them, and vowed to keep an eye on him.

* * *

The trip to Rouen was done in companionable ease and silence. Not many people traveled along this route so early in the day. So d'Artagnan was surprised when Athos with abject certainty announced that they were being followed.

He twisted in his saddle to peer behind him; at his sides and even up ahead – but to his eye saw nothing out of the ordinary – only trees, the road, dirt and the occasional passerby.

"Are you sure?" he questioned, "because I don't see…"

"One man I think." Aramis interjected – effectively cutting off d'Artagnan's query.

Porthos reached over and playfully ruffled d'Artagnan's hair. "Something to do with Bonnaire maybe?"

Scowling, d'Artagnan pressed his flying hair down and smoothed out the stray strands that stood up to attention. He swatted Porthos' hand away and groaned at the indignity of it all.

"Maybe." Athos countered.

d'Artagnan moved his mount in close to the three and whispered with some urgency. "Should we not turn and confront this person? Find out what he wants?"

Athos studied d'Artagnan and nodded. There was some merit to his strategy but he wished not to make a move just yet. Sometimes patience was the better option. This time around he would not put d'Artagnan in harm's way if he could help it. "We ride on to Rouen. See if we can find our man. If not – we turn; face our stalker and see what he has to say."

When they crossed over into the city limits of Rouen, dismounted, and found shelter for their horses, d'Artagnan was overwhelmed with the sheer amount of noise, bodies and trade jammed together all around him.

Over the cacophony of sound he could hear water lapping against the docks and wondered how the people here could think amid such activity. He could feel his heart beating wildly in sync with the frenzied state of movement around him.

Porthos laughed, clapped his back and urged him along the crowded streets to follow behind the others. "How will we ever find anyone here among all this?" he yelled over the stomping of horses' hooves; and carriage wheels scraping across cobblestone.

"We go to the ships", he pointed out toward the docks where sailors fought canvas being lowered to wooden decks. "Speak to the harbor master – find the nearest tavern; see if someone knows something."

d'Artagnan nodded with amazement at the foreign sights and sounds around him, and let Porthos lead him on.

* * *

d'Artagnan pet his horse fondly. It had been a long day of searching, asking questions and staking out ships drifting into the harbor. But it had all been to no avail, Bonnaire was not here in Rouen. He was a well-known scoundrel among the people here – so it seemed La Harve was the next obvious place to look next. He marveled at the musketeer's patience for such mundane tasks as asking question after question; and hoped one day he could match their persistence.

For he must admit that talking to people he did not know; and not getting the answers he wished to hear had become wearisome.

However after a day with no leads to follow Athos was anxious and ready to go – so he had sent him to pay the owner of the livery for his services; and saddle the horses. They would meet him here after paying the tab and be on their way. He was eager to get moving as well, and told his horse so, as he threw the saddle across his back.

His mount pulling away from him, eyes blown wide with fright and a slight displacement of air was the only warning d'Artagnan had before he turned to see of all people, Monroe of the Red Guard standing before him – the handle of his firearm raised above his head, and then crashing down to catch him across the temple.

Pain exploded at the side of his head, jaw and cheek. His vision went white; and he crashed to the ground – Vadim and the lady laughing at him behind bales of hay.

When d'Artagnan came back to himself – his head throbbed and blood rushed loudly in his ears. The horses pranced in their stalls, neighed with agitation and pushed against their barriers. A red haze covered his left eye and his sight pitched with a wavy sickening sway.

He reached to touch the side of his face but found that his wrists were tied and bound to pillars at the center of the stable barn. Panic churned in the pit of his stomach, as he twisted his wrists to try and get himself free.

Suddenly a memory of that day rushed toward him like a tidal wave. It was happening again but this time the gun powder would explode. He would not be able to get away. He would die here and never see his friends again in this life.

Before him Monroe paced back and forth in a frantic state. The light from the lantern caught his eyes which revealed a sort of manic madness. d'Artagnan struggled against his bonds and yelled out, "Let me go Monroe. What is it do you think you are doing?" The last time he recalled seeing the man, was during their duel and his mad dash to escape the Red Guard.

Then it hit him – their stalker in the woods and his missing hours with Vadim. Here was the man who had been with them underground in the tunnels – who had beaten him unmercifully with the hilt of his sword, had spit in his face; kicked at him; slandered Athos' name and laughed how he had been the one to betray his identity to Vadim.

d'Artagnan took in a shuddered breath, and remembered it all. Remembered the pain, torture and humiliation he had endured at the hands of this man and Vadim.

"It was you who supplied the gunpowder; you who received the shipments of powder - all from Bonnaire."

Monroe stopped pacing, turned to him; knelt down and grabbed him by the collar. "You will serve your purpose boy." he hissed with malice. "I thought to track down Bonnaire and kill his sorry ass before he spilled the beans on me. But who do I find on my way to La Harve? You with that high and mighty Athos - that drunkard; liar and turn coat who sought to ruin my life."

d'Artagnan squirmed; pulled at his bonds and stared down the mad man in his sights. "I fought you once and will do so again – you coward! Release me and fight me fair!"

Monroe stood and slapped d'Artagnan across the mouth with the back of his hand, the force of it splitting his lip. He stared down at the indignant boy and watched as he licked his lip; hardened his eyes; and with renewed energy pull at his restraints. Monroe matched his glare and let his own dark eyes, go void of all feeling. He pulled out his musket and pointed it behind him.

"Athos will walk through that door. I will shoot you right before his eyes and then kill him and the rest of his merry band. The inseparables will be no more, and my way will be clear."

* * *

The Lark this night was full of life. Noise in the tavern was a hodgepodge of deafening gaiety; song and lightheartedness. The hearth emitted a sweltering amount of heat that had ale flowing freely among the patrons. Athos reached for his purse to pay off their tab – when suddenly the room faded into the background; the laughter receded and a cold trickle of sweat rolled down his back.

His brothers were here in the room with him – safe. So this intuition he was sensing must be about d'Artagnan – that pull at his rib which told him he needed to hurry.

He threw coin down on the table and moved to rush from the establishment. Aramis and Porthos stood also – met each other's gaze and followed without hesitation. Something was wrong. Athos' sixth sense had kicked in and they would wait for instruction. His uncanny ability to feel out trouble had gotten them through many a skirmish; battle and personal mess – so they had learned to trust his instincts.

Out in the street – the cool night air was a shock to their systems but proved effective in sobering them up. Athos stalked down the rocky street toward the livery with purpose and when close signaled for Aramis to make his way to the loft and for Porthos to enter the building from the back. They nodded to each other and took off at a steady pace for their positions.

When he entered the livery stable, the first thing he saw was d'Artagnan sitting on the ground – his wrists bound to the central pillar; blood covering the side of his face – his lips pressed tight with frustration. Athos pulled his sword and scanned the area.

d'Artagnan looked to him, then over his shoulder, and screamed out, "It's a trap!"

And there to the side stood Monroe – his firearm pointed at d'Artagnan's chest; a leer of disgust and satisfaction on his face. A retort resounded – d'Artagnan closed his eyes and flinched at the sound. Athos raced toward the boy, intent on taking the bullet. A searing pain creased his arm as he covered d'Artagnan's body with his own then fell at his side.

A second sharp crack filled the space, and Monroe dropped to the ground screaming; holding onto his thigh – blood flowing freely through his fingers; his face transformed now in a contortion of agony. Porthos burst through the back – his musket drawn - as horses pushed against their stalls, ready to bolt if given the chance.

Indifferent residents screamed in the streets for the magistrate to come restore order; but stayed far enough away – in fear for their own lives. Gunfire was not uncommon this time of night – so people kept moving, scurrying to keep from being caught in the crosshairs.

d'Artagnan opened his eyes to see with relief, Athos struggle to his knees, turn toward him; grab him about the neck and search his face. He swiped the blood from his temple with the sleeve of his coat; and leaned over to touch his forehead with that of this boy who could not stay out of trouble.

d'Artagnan let out a shaky breath and nodded, "I'm okay. What about you?" In that moment he could feel Porthos cutting the ropes at his wrists and watched Aramis leap gracefully down from the ladder that led up to the loft – smoke curling from the barrel of his musket.

Without answering, Athos left his side, grasped his sword tightly in a white knuckled grip and moved to tower over Monroe. When he lifted his weapon to strike at the heart – Aramis moved swiftly and grabbed at his arm. "Wait Athos – wait. What is Monroe doing here? What is this about?"

"Do it, you snobbish; arrogant; son of a bitch", Monroe yelled out through clenched teeth, pain evident on his face as he clutched at his thigh attempting to stem the flow of blood. "When you killed her you turned your back and doomed us all."

Porthos, with d'Artagnan leaning heavily into his embrace moved to stand with them. "He knows of Bonnaire – he meant to ambush him in La Harve", d'Artagnan rasped out, then promptly loss the ability to stay on his feet; his knees trembling as adrenaline seeped from his body.

Porthos lowered him gently to the ground and the three musketeers' commenced with silent conversation.

d'Artagnan spoke aloud to interrupt their thoughts. "He's the one who betrayed me to Vadim – I remember now. But this here is a revenge on you Athos." d'Artagnan took a breath to shore himself up and made to stand. "He said things about you I cannot abide. I seek…."

Athos held up his hand to stay d'Artagnan's concussion induced tirade. The boy's unyielding loyalty was an ever present wonder to him, even in the face of truths spouted from the mouth of Monroe. His wish to fight for his honor, even now – swelled his heart with affection.

But d'Artagnan did not know him; did not know the depths of his missteps and mistakes. The day would come when such veils would be lifted. But the truth of him would not be revealed today – at least, not at this moment.

He turned to his brother. "Take him out of here Aramis, and see to his injury. Porthos and I will see to this."

"And your injury?", Aramis pointed out. Athos shook his head in the negative, and gestured toward the door.

Aramis nodded warily and lifted d'Artagnan up from beneath the shoulders and together they stumbled out into the night; passed by startled neighbors and made their way to The Lark.

Porthos pointed to Athos' shoulder where a red stain saturated his coat. "And you brother?"

Athos touched his arm lightly; surprised by the injury he was only now beginning to feel. "I'm fine", he answered, and turned to stare down at his nemesis, who had found his way from Pinon – to Paris – and was now a traitorous Red Guard. "Let's get what we need from this one, and find the man we seek."

Monroe met Athos' stare with his own menacing glare. "Do what you will with me Athos", he ground out, "but know what hell you left behind when you turned your back on us."

Athos responded with a heat in his voice Porthos rarely heard. "I have no quarrel with what you say of me Monroe. All of it is true. I have done much; and more to deserve yours and the wrath of many, but what I have not done is betray my King or France."

He bent to lean over the downed Red Guard, raising his weapon once again to strike. "Tell us now of where we can find Bonnaire and I will spare your life."

Monroe scooted back and away; sweat on his brow plastering hair to the sides of his face – his eyes glistening with pain. "And if I don't?"

Athos leaned in close, and hissed in his ear, "Then I will strike you down where you lay for threatening the life of d'Artagnan."

Porthos raised an eyebrow – but did not speak throughout the exchange. Each of them had heavy crosses to bear and this he assumed was part of the weight Athos' bore. He was in no position to judge any man; so stood at his brother's shoulder and listened as Monroe gave up the ship Bonnarie would depart from at the port of La Harve.

* * *

The trip to La Harve was a silent affair. Asked what had become of Monroe, Porthos would only say that he now stewed in the jails of Rouen to await his sentencing for attempted murder; and conspiracy against France.

d'Artagnan looked to Athos and had so much he wanted to say and ask. He wanted to say thank you for saving his life….again; to ask who was Monroe to him, and why did the man hate him so much. That what he said of him were lies, no matter how much he wished for him to believe them true.

Instead Athos had asked of him, "Will you share your returned memories with us?"

d'Artagnan thought on it. Monroe beating him while others held him down until he was rendered unconscious; being tied to gunpowder and seeing his life flash before his eyes, were moments he wished to forget and never revisit. "No", he answered. He would keep that terror to himself. Some things were meant to be kept close to the vest. His screw ups and fears were just such things – his alone to bear.

Now he understood Athos' reluctance to share - and would not intrude on what he obviously wanted to keep to himself. This was something he was learning from Aramis and Porthos – that a man's demons were his own – so he would not push just to have his curiosity assuaged.

"Fair enough", Athos replied, then pulled ahead to lead their small entourage.

d'Artagnan touched the side of his face and winced. His head hurt, his face hurt, his pride was bruised; but his heart was light. He was glad to ride alongside these men, and as they crossed over the border into La Harve – he hoped finding Bonnaire and bringing him back to Paris would be easier than the journey it took to get here.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. Also – thank you to those of you who have already reviewed, favorited, and who are following this story. This means so much!


	5. Chapter 5

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Athos begins to face his demons as surprising revelations come to the forefront. d'Artagnan navigates through this nightmare with him, and attempts to save his friend, not only from the past but from himself.

* * *

Chapter Five: Phoenix

Orange, red fire raged on unrestrained and brightened the night sky as if the sun were shining. The power of it spewed forth, reached for the heavens, breathed in air to fuel its rampage, and then devoured the estate section by section.

Stone dislodged from the foundation; fell to the earth and splintered into large discarded fragments. d'Artagnan flinched as the stately building imploded and pulled Athos in close to his body. He hunched over the trembling, unconscious form of his friend, bodily protecting him from flying embers as they pulled free, danced about like fireflies and escaped the inferno, only to land hissing in the grass.

The destruction happening before him was overwhelming; the radiating heat almost unbearable; and the crackling sound – so deafening it roared like rumbling thunder. Heart racing, he barely noticed his horse nudging at his shoulder – nostrils flared, and eyes wide with terror. He reached up to touch his nose, when teeth nipped at his neck; then gazed down at Athos who lay still and unaware.

Shaking his head, he looked out on the fire in amazement, wonder and respect. There was nothing he could do. This magnificent home to generations of de la Fere's was lost.

In the distance, he could hear church bells ringing from every nearby hamlet – informing the region that help was needed to contain the blaze in Pinon.

d'Artagnan looked down in his arms at the man he respected most in this world and felt a real fear clench his heart. Before his collapse, Athos had spoken to him of things he did not understand – gut wrenching words of death; duty and responsibility.

Confusing accounts of his dead wife – alive; who attempted murder and burned his home down around him, eager to be rid of the past – tumbled out from concussed and inebriated lips.

What scared him most was not the talk of murder, but the look in Athos' eyes – as if he wanted to give up, lay down here in the hard dirt and succumb to death. At his neck was her mark, he knew it. A parting gift of what could have happened. He swiped the blood away with his thumb and scrutinized his face with purpose. This was not the man he knew and it left him feeling frightened - adrift.

Why would Athos want to die – leave this life, his friends? Leave him here with no rudder to guide him?

The sound of wheels crunching on rocky ground interrupted his whirling thoughts and he drew his musket on instinct, pulled Athos closer and felt the rise and fall of their chests match breath for breath in sync.

Setting his sights on who he thought might be her – the dead wife resurrected, he stared warily through the smoky fog and waited. He would not let her have him, and finish what mayhem she had started.

As his arm shook with the effort of holding up his musket – the fog of smoke drifted by and there, instead of her in his sights was a man of the cloth seated atop a buckboard – hands raised in supplication; staring out at the flames, eyes wide in disbelief. The white of his collar glowed brightly in the shifting shadows.

"My God", he exclaimed, and shook his head in dismay, "what has happened here?"

d'Artagnan lowered his weapon with relief, turned from the clergyman and stared himself at the raging fire. He could only share the sentiment himself – of what had happened here indeed?

Earlier in the evening, of what seemed a life time ago – he had left Aramis and Porthos with Bonnaire in custody, barely into their journey back to Paris. The inexplicable pull that led him back to the estate and Athos was a mystery to him. It was a mystery to Aramis and Porthos as well – who short of restraining him; or rendering him unconscious, could not stop him from turning back.

Aramis had been adamant he follow orders, restated that Athos could handle his own affairs; and reiterated above all that Porthos needed medical attention. d'Artagnan heard it all – felt Aramis' apprehension or perhaps it was disappointment in him, but in the end turned his back on well-founded arguments and let his horse loose.

For some time as he rode his horse hard with abandon, fear gripped his heart. Wind whipped hair about his face and his mind conjured up all sorts of worse case scenarios. And he wondered if he were too late; berating himself for not answering the call sooner. For surely this string beneath his rib that pulled him forward was Athos calling to him, reaching out for help. When he crested the rise toward his destination, he was met with a wall of heat and blinding light.

Staring at the horror, he feared the worst of his imaginings had come to fruition. Athos was there – inside somewhere – trapped; dead or close to it.

But when he dismounted – something whispered to him with confidence that Athos lived within those burning walls, and he rushed in without thought or hesitation.

Now, here in the grass, he thanked God for the mystery that called him back. To have lost Athos to this would have devastated him. His own father fallen in rain, and then Athos consumed by fire would have been too much to bear. Recovering from such a loss was too impossible to comprehend. He would not have survived it.

Even now, with Athos alive, here in his arms, he could not wrap his mind around the awfulness of this moment. Worse than losing his home, it seemed Athos had a wish to lose his life. Collapsing in the dirt amidst the smoke; he had mumbled something about deserving death by her hand – before losing consciousness.

He had pulled on the man's collar – shook him hard, and screamed for him to stay awake, stay with him – explain himself. But it was to no avail. His frantic pleas to not be left alone – again, fell on deaf ears. His only solace – was that he still breathed.

"People from the village should be here soon with cart loads of barrels to help gather water from the nearby stream."

Dazed, his focus split between Athos' breathing and the events leading to this moment, d'Artagnan looked to the man, now dismounted from his cart and seated at his shoulder; waiting it seemed for some response from him.

He frowned, nodded and drew Athos in protectively to his body. Who was this priest? What did he want? What should he do? Why wouldn't Athos wake up?

The priest raised an eyebrow, and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Please, don't fret", he called out over the roaring flames. "I'm Father Breuil. Let me help you son. The church is very close" – and he gestured past the great tree.

d'Artagnan turned to look, could hear the bells ringing and scowled in thought.

"We can take the Comte there in my buckboard, and tend to his injuries."

d'Artagnan peered down at Athos. He was covered in soot; the side of his face bruised with raised blisters where burned. He could just make out blood seeping through his coat at his arm, from a previous injury incurred all those many days ago.

What would Athos say to this? To leave his home in the hands of others – burning to the ground?

As if providing an answer, Athos groaned, his own chest constricted and the decision was made. He studied the priest warily at his side and nodded in assent. Aramis and Porthos weren't here. He had to trust someone, right? A decision had to be made. Athos needed help; and he couldn't do it alone.

Together they carried Athos' unresponsive body between them; limp and boneless to the back of the cart, then gently laid him out. d'Artagnan raced to retrieve their horses, tethered them to the back with haste and as he climbed in to sit with his friend – watched as villagers clamored by foot or in carts over the rise toward the massive estate now engulfed in fire; their silhouettes black against the fearsome firestorm.

Red, angry flames now lived a life of their own, ready to leap from constraints and move to embrace the countryside. He could see the shock and dread on their faces – and knew the fight ahead of them would be long, arduous and dangerous.

The priest turned from atop his raised seat, and looked down into d'Artagnan's worried eyes. "They can handle this. Let us go and take care of the Comte." Turning away Father Breuil sucked his teeth and urged his horse to "walk on".

As the cart surged forward, away from the crumbling, engulfed estate – d'Artagnan sat close to Athos, hunkered down for the brief ride and let the rocking motion over stone and ruts ease the tension from his body.

"I'm sorry", he whispered to his friend, and turned away from the destruction.

* * *

Athos woke with a start to Anne's mirthless laugh, her knife at his throat and the smell of arid smoke. He groaned, felt for the stinging sensation on the side of his face; and promptly coughed the remnants of ash up from his aching lungs. His arm ached and throbbed, and a distant memory of being shot at some days ago niggled at the periphery of his thoughts.

Suddenly, the taste of alcohol bubbled at the back of his throat, threatening to choke him. Dizzy with drink, smoke and a massive headache – he gagged and convulsively swallowed down the instinct to vomit.

Miserably, he grabbed hold of his hair at the roots and pulled with force. The past pushed in on him like a tidal wave coming in to shore. Surely he would drown beneath its weight. He swallowed down bile again, and cringed as the image of her surfaced in his mind's eye.

Alive – his Anne lived; and walked among men as flesh and blood – not the apparition who inhabited his world for five years. And she was just as he remembered her on that painful, long ago day – defiant, without remorse and radiantly beautiful.

With his forearm he covered his eyes, and coughed up not only the smoke of his ruined home, but the poison of his ruined life that began that wretched day. What was he to do?

He had accumulated five years of grief; anger and self-inflicted punishment – all justified because she had suffered by the noose at his command. Five years of the daily remembrance – visions of Thomas, lifeless – her leaning over him; blood on her hands – righteous in the committing of her terrible act.

Her green eyes blazed cool with the belief she was right in what she had done. The horror of her crime was forever etched in his mind, his heart and in his soul. She had sworn she loved him. That she had killed his brother for their love to survive. He had not – did not believe her. Her sin of murder, had been his crime as well – and love had nothing to do with it.

He drew his legs up and keened from his belly - for he had no tears to shed. How was he to live now? He grabbed for the locket at his neck and caressed the pressed flower there.

She should have killed him – ended his life before he had the chance to figure out how to go on.

For five years, he had wished his existence to end. Battles, skirmishes, duels – alcohol, recklessness – none of it had worked.

And then….

Looking up from his dark thoughts, he began to notice his surroundings, and frowned. He was laying on a wooden pew, and before him stood candles lit upon an altar with an ornate cross of Christ's sacrifice to man.

He leaned over and pulled himself to a seated position and scanned the very place of worship he had grown up in and recited his vows of marriage. Vows which promised his bride to love her always. Where his brother had stood by his side, shook his hand, and then kissed his new wife – a smile on his face.

Tearing his gaze away from the aisle where she had walked toward him with joy; all in white – flowers in her hair; where they held hands and anticipated a future of love, children and companionship – he whispered a curse.

The silence here in this sanctuary was stifling; and he could bear it no longer – so called out to whoever was listening, "What now?"

His voice bounced from pew to pew and he wondered at how he had come here, what of his home, and where was d'Artagnan? His clothes smelled of smoke, his weapons nowhere on his person, and his throat was dry from inhaling ash.

From the shadows Father Breuil moved stealthily toward him, and sat in the pew beside him – staring himself at the altar.

Athos drew his hand through his hair, and sighed deeply with resignation. This man who sat beside him, had married him in this very church; had stood and prayed beside his wife as the noose was placed around her neck. He had promised to see to her remains; and had assured him his duty led him to make the right decision.

"She lives", Athos croaked out with effort.

Father Breuil clasped his hands together, nodded solemnly and spoke with measured tone, "Yes. Remy and I saw to her survival. We cut her down as she gasped for breath and you rode away."

Athos stared at the cross; his heart skipping a beat at this revelation; and thought back to that day. How he could not bear to witness her death, how she had smiled with hatred in her eyes as he rode off and promised himself he would never return. How on that day – he had not recognized the conspiracy between the three.

"We hid her right here in this church. I took care of her, and brought her back to health." He paused and stared off to some faraway place. "And then one day, she was gone. Not a word – just disappeared." He turned to Athos then, and spoke with animation. "She had promised me her devotion – to come back to me – to leave with me from this place and start again. To be as we once were before you stole her reason."

Athos answered his voice tired and weary with five years of guilt, "She was… is a murderer and a liar."

Father Breuil smiled sadly, "But we love her none the less – do we not?"

Athos gazed at the man in disbelief, but could not argue the point. Yes – a part of him still loved her, and he could not understand it. He could not understand the hold she had on him – even as the image of his dead brother; his home burning flashed before him.

"She has killed Remy", he continued, hoping to break through the unhinged demeanor of the man seated next to him.

"And she should have killed you. Finally, this is our chance to be together again."

Athos looked closely into the face of the man who he thought he knew. The demented face of the kindly clergyman - who had introduced him to his sister – the alluring, exciting Anne de Breuil.

The depths of her duplicity, lies and the calculated malevolence hit him hard and the weight of it stole his breath. For a moment his vision tunneled and he thought he might pass out.

Father Breuil squeezed his shoulder, "I see she could not do it."

He looked again to the altar and leaned forward as if in prayer. "When she married you, do you know what she said to me? She said that she truly loved you, that she was going to change; that this was her second chance at life. She made it clear that what was between us was over. I accepted it. It was our plan after all – to escape the past, to start anew. Me, as a respected priest, and she my sister - a Comtess."

Father Breuil sat up straight and stiffened his back. "But her decision broke my heart. Now five years later, I get my second chance Comte. I'll finish what she could not, and she will be with me again."

Athos coughed up smoke and scanned the church, his fear for d'Artagnan ratcheting up the longer Father Brueil rambled on. All around him, he could hear the bells tolling; calling the Pinon residents to gather and extinguish the fire and save the village and surrounding communities from her rage.

"Where is d'Artagnan?" he asked with apprehension.

"I sent him off to find a physician Pinon does not have. Unfortunately when he returns, he will find you hanging from the very tree you condemned her to. He will mourn you gravely, I think."

Athos appealed to the man at his side, "Do not hurt him."

Father Breuil shook his head and in an oddly kind voice countered, "I'm not in the habit of hurting innocent people Comte. But I will kill him if he gets in the way of my plans."

A noise, hooves on rock out in the courtyard; a horse neighing; footsteps on stone, and Athos knew d'Artagnan was close. He could feel the boy about to enter this death trap. When Father Breuil produced a musket from beneath the folds of his coat and pointed it toward the door, he knew he had to think of something – fast.

Panicked, his words forced out in a rush, the priest sputtered, "He is back sooner than I thought", and moved to meet the threat.

Athos stood between he and the door, ready to lunge; but decided instead to plead; cajole and held out his hands with palms down. "No", he shouted, "I'll send him away. Then you can get on with this deed."

Father Breuil stopped in his tracks, turned and then studied the Comte with a curious, knowing expression. "You wish to die", he stated.

Gazing to the ceiling, Athos answered with honesty, "I have imagined it for five years."

"Then I am happy to oblige."

Athos leaned then toward the priest, his eyes cold as emerald stones and set his jaw tight. "I am more than willing to hand over my fate to you Father; but know this – if you move to harm d'Artagnan, I will turn the tide and kill you with my bare hands."

Father Breuil nodded in agreement; swallowed down the fear of this man – the threat he could pose and commanded, "Do it then; convince him to leave here. I'll be standing in the confessional listening to every word."

* * *

d'Artagnan pushed the doors of the church open, exhaustion covering him like a heavy blanket. The search for a physician had been fruitless – for as he had learned from those left behind in the village – there was no physician. Gone now for five years – they had been left to tend their ailments on their own.

He had run back to the church disheartened.

However, upon entering the sanctuary and seeing Athos standing at the altar – his head bowed in thought – he raced forward; glad to see his mentor up and conscious. "Athos", he exclaimed with joy and when he reached his side, grabbed for his shoulders and sagged with relief.

Athos reached for him also and the two stood beneath the stained glass; and before the cross – each searching the other for hidden injury.

"I'm well d'Artagnan", Athos answered the unspoken question; and watched as the boy's frown of concern segued to a blinding smile that reached his eyes. He could not help but to smile back and pet his cheek with reassurance.

In those eyes he saw complete loyalty, and trust – a trust wholly underserved. He gave a last squeeze of d'Artagnan's shoulder and turned slowly away to face the altar. He had a duty to perform now – to get d'Artagnan away to safety and get on with the business of fate.

Misunderstanding Athos' reaction, d'Artagnan announced, "I'm sorry."

Athos lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head. What could d'Artagnan possibly be apologizing for? "Sorry?"

"Your home can't be saved. I thought only to get you away to safety."

Athos nodded in understanding. "Don't trouble yourself d'Artagnan. My home was lost to me long ago. There is no need to be sorry."

After some moments of silence – each man lost in thought – d'Artagnan thinking of how fortuitous it was that he felt the pull of Athos; that somehow he had sensed trouble and returned just in time to save him from the flames – Athos – his mind on saving this boy's life; turned to him. His countenance was stern, serious – the blisters forming on the side of face standing out in the dim candle light.

"I would ask something of you d'Artagnan."

Standing straight to attention, d 'Artagnan murmured, "Anything."

Stepping closer, Athos peered deep into the boy's eyes and would not let loose his gaze, reached out and held his forearm tight. "I would ask that you leave here; catch up with Aramis and Porthos and assist in transporting Bonniare to Paris."

d'Artagnan stepped back and away from his grip; eyes wide with incredulous disbelief. "Anything but that", he countered. How could he leave now? What might happen if Athos were alone? The man had spoken of death – wishing to end his life. His home was destroyed; a dead wife resurrected just attempted murder. How could he ask him to leave?

"I'll not leave you here", he reiterated firmly and set his jaw with determination.

Athos could feel the heavy presence of Father Breuil staring at them through the confessional. With command on his side, he invaded d'Artagnan's personal space, and then stated with intent, "Then I will not ask. You are to do this d'Artagnan. It is an order."

d'Artagnan eyed his mentor with suspicion. "As you so often remind me, I am not yet a musketeer, and in this I choose to disregard your order and stay here – by your side as your friend – as you would do for me."

Athos released a sigh of exasperation, sat heavily in the front row of pews and rubbed at his aching head. He could feel d'Artagnan sit at his side, and wondered why he thought – if he said "do this" d'Artagnan would obey? The boy was earnest, stubborn and above all loyal. Father Breuil's threat hovered invisible and silent at his back.

He pulled at his beard and thought on what he could do; say that would have d'Artagnan listen, leave this church unharmed. But no words would come. He could think of no argument that would sway him. This young man had already disobeyed a directive, and inexplicably – beyond any rational reasoning, found him – ran into a burning building and saved his life.

Athos turned to him then and attempted to school his emotions. "I beg you then d'Artagnan, for no other reason than you should trust me. Please, leave now and make your way to Paris with the others."

d'Artagnan frowned, stood then and towered over Athos. He gazed down at this man who for some unknown reason, from the first day they met – meant as much to him as his own father. Whose praise he relished; whose teachings he devoured like water; whose respect he worked for at every turn.

"It's true then", he shouted. "You beg me now to go, giving you permission to leave us – to leave me." His voice cracked with emotion and he winced.

Athos frowned in consternation and grabbed for d'Artagnan's arm with frantic purpose, pushing and pulling him toward the door.

d'Artagnan pushed back, and dug in his heels. "You push me away, so that I won't know. But I heard you Athos. Back at the estate, as it burned around us, I heard you say you wished to die. That you deserved to die." He yanked away his arm with force, as they stood toe to toe at the door, chests heaving – d'Artagnan's heart breaking.

"But I won't do as you say. Aramis and Porthos would never forgive me, and I wouldn't forgive myself." The sparks between them threatened to ignite into a flame of its own as the peeling of bells and men shouting for control over the blaze back at the estate in the distance reached them.

d'Artagnan stood his ground; clenched his fists, and leaned forward with defiant boldness. "You can't make me go."

Athos stepped close and searched the boy's face, and saw a determination there born of worry and fear. But he ignored the surge of care welling up in his heart, forged ahead, and answered back with his throat constricted, "I will make you d'Artagnan, because I must." And grabbed him by the back of the collar and forcibly pushed him out the door; guiding him down the stone steps out into the night air.

The sky was lit with the flames from his collapsing estate; as his own world crumbled from beneath his feet. d'Artagnan fell to the hard earth as Athos released his grip on his collar. "You will go…. now, d'Artagnan!" and gestured out into the night.

* * *

Father Breuil stepped out onto the steps of the church and pointed his weapon at Athos, staring down at the scene before him.

d'Artagnan sat on the ground stunned at this turn of events as he tracked first to Athos and then to the priest. "You don't see it Comte. He won't leave you. Nothing you do or say will dissuade him. Even now, your betrayal will not send him away."

The Father turned to look down at d'Artagnan with a sad countenance and with a lilt to his voice continued, "You needn't worry boy. I will send the Comte de la Fere to his deserved fate in hell and send you on the journey with him."

Athos turned to meet the priest, reached for his sword and realized he had no weapon. This time there was no Aramis above or Porthos at his back; there was only he here alone to keep d'Artagnan from getting killed because of his past deeds.

As Father Breuil lifted his weapon straight for his heart, ready to pull the trigger – Porthos' teachings came to him and he could hear the big man's voice clear in his ear instructing – "charge, head-butt, tackle him to the ground and disarm."

And as he moved to follow Porthos' direction, a swift displacement of air flew by his cheek and struck Father Breuil silently between his eyes. The weapon in his hand lowered, fired off a discharge into the dirt – kicking up stone and dust. He fell backward heavily as if taking a seat on the steps of the church, resigned to chat with a talkative parishioner.

The sudden, quietness of the attack startled Athos as he ducked instinctively and stared back into the night anticipating another arrow to now strike him square on – leaving d'Artagnan to fend for himself. But he was only met with silence, and whoever it was that saved his life, did not come forward to claim it.

After some moments, he turned back and cautiously moved toward the seated priest. An arrow protruded prominently from his forehead – right through to the back of his skull. Very little blood seeped around the entry point. This was the work of a master bowman.

d'Artagnan stood to his feet and stared with astonishment at the gruesome sight of Father Breuil's dead eyes fixed on the point at the bridge of his nose. His mind swirled with questions. Who fired the arrow with such perfect precision, in the dark of night to save their lives? Why did Father Breuil want to kill Athos? What was it about this place that death hovered in every corner?

He turned away and peered out into the night – past the great oak – out into the open fields, where the fire's light still glowed and casts shadows that ominously swayed back and forth.

When he thought to question Athos as to what happened, he found him seated next to the dead priest – gaze fixed out over the landscape. d'Artagnan moved then to join him, and together they sat side by side through what was left of night into early morning; and hours later watched the sun peek slowly over the horizon in golden, wondrous glory.

With the sun blazed bright to begin a new day, Athos leaned forward and swiped a hand over his red, rimmed eyes. To his left – his home stood a burnt out shell, black; broken – now a hulking ruin. To his right the tree of death stood – tall; strong the leaves green with life, belying its painful purpose.

He stood painfully then from the steps and moved slow and steady toward his past, touched the rough bark, looked up to its stalwart limbs and came to a surprising conclusion. He did not wish to die – to leave behind his friends – to abandon this boy who accused him with just that desire.

d'Artagnan stood quietly at his side, beheld the great tree with trepidation, as one just like it plagued his own dreams; and asked with a weary, uncertain hesitation to his voice, "Can we leave this place now – together?"

Athos nodded once with confidence and answered, "Yes", determined to begin again. From this day forward he would attempt to truly live again – instead of chasing death – embrace wholly what his brothers had to offer – of love, loyalty and family. He would find a way, somehow - to navigate this new world with her in it.

He turned away from the great tree with d'Artagnan at his side.

* * *

Thank you for reading and being patient with me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please leave a review as I love hearing what you all think!


	6. Chapter 6

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: In the aftermath of surviving near death, Athos and d'Artagnan come to recognize the beginnings of their bond, and attempt to understand the strength of it.

* * *

Chapter Six: As Luck Would Have It

Tall, swaying grass brushed by his knees; distracting his horse, so he halted and let loose the reigns to have him nibble aimlessly. When he scanned the vast field a distant memory of he, and his brother – running, laughing and hiding among the greenery assaulted him.

It was a rare happy memory that gave him pause and had him searching deep in the recesses of his past to find and keep something good to take away from this place.

Out here in this field, he and Thomas could be children; rough house – imagine adventures; and climb trees. Remy would join them from the village, and the three would spend hours daydreaming; stealing apples from Baron de Louviers' nearby estate, devouring cook's sweet bread and coming up with multiple ways to save Camelot from dragons and dark magic.

Heat from the noon day sun prickled at the back of his neck, and he swore he could hear in the distance three boys shouting and splashing in the nearby stream.

After luckily escaping with their lives back at the church, he had thought to leave this place right away – turn his back, never to lay eyes on his home again. But his weapons were somewhere among the now rubble of his home; and if he could - wished to retrieve them.

The sword and rapier had been gifts given to him as a young man – as young as d'Artagnan was now. They were presented to him on his nineteenth birthday by Master Gallium – a devoted tutor in the arts of etiquette and swordsmanship. Who had been the first person in his life to see a talent; a worth and spoke to him of it every day. Master Gallium had filled his insulated world with adventures of what lay outside of Pinon and the weight of his duties. Opened his eyes to possibilities and taught him how to be a good person. The man had become like a father to him, and nurtured him in the ways of fair play, compromise and leadership.

He loved that old man and wished not to part with the pair of weapons given to him with care and much advice – which had been his way.

His words came to him now as he drew closer to his home, "Take care Olivier; be true to yourself. Follow your heart, but let your head lead your sword and guide you." Master Gallium had called him his most prized pupil. He remembered smiling; his chest swelling with pride as he received the gifts laid out in a soft leather case. It had been one of the happiest days of his life – to hear such praise.

A week later – his father had him dismissed. Gone without a word was his beloved teacher, with him since his tenth year – moved on, he was told, to teach another. He never heard from him again. A new teacher took his place less than a month later. He had no complaint of his new instructor for he was a taciturn, brilliant master of the sword – who taught him much; but who did not know him or love him as did Master Gallium.

As he reached the heavy wooden door, miraculously still standing – several men of various ages and sizes stood to the side – hats in hands, bowing their heads politely.

d'Artagnan, with their horses reins in hand, stood quietly beside him, and he could sense in him surprise at the men's deference to his position. This long held tradition of servitude, these people, and this village – only brought him pain and it took everything he had to remember his manners and his standing here. He needed to complete his duty and get the hell away.

By his way of thinking, he was no longer the Comte de la Fere.

So he schooled his face to show gratitude and looked to the tired weary men before him and removed his money purse from the saddle bag. "I want to thank you good sirs for containing this fire at great risk to your own safety." He held out the purse to the first man standing in the row, "Please accept this Monsieur Baudouin, and be sure each man here receives their equal share, as a token of my gratitude."

"Thank you, My Lord", the men murmured and replaced their hats atop their heads. Some moved away – eager to get back to their families, to rest after such a long battle with the flames, but a few stayed and eyed him cautiously.

Monsieur Baudouin, a good man, who ran the local tavern, stepped closer. "If I may ask My Lord – is there anything else you wish from us – to begin rebuilding…."

"No Monsieur", Athos hastened to say, "I'll not be back here. Leave things as they are."

Monsieur Baudouin nodded with regret and added, "Before the fire broke out, we found Remy in his smithy. He is dead – by his own hand it seems. I know you knew him well."

Athos peered out over the man's shoulder; and knowing the truth of Remy's death sent a chill down his spine and a pain in his chest. Though he had not struck the blow – Remy's death was on his hands. His death would forever be an added reminder, always of Anne's duplicitous nature and his complicity.

He looked out on the fields once more, and in his mind's eye Remy ran laughing with him at his side – Thomas struggling to keep up, following in their wake. A whined shout of "wait up" echoed all around, and he turned back to Monsieur Baudouin with a somber expression.

"Had Remy family Baudouin – a wife, any children?"

"No", the innkeeper shook his head – "his mother passed on some two years ago. For the past five years, he led a most solitary life."

Athos removed a money purse from his pocket and handed it over, "Then take this, and bury him proper."

"Yes My Lord", Baudouin bowed his head with respect; but continued, "You know we had hoped, now that you are returned…."

And on those words, Athos walked away, let the man talk to his back; and pushed the door open in search of his gifts.

* * *

As he crossed over the threshold into what was left of the grand estate, Athos felt d'Artagnan at his back, turned to face the curious young man and held out his hand to stay him at the door.

"Wait here", he requested. "I'm only going in to find my weapon's belt and then we can leave as you suggested – together." d'Artagnan seemed ready to protest, but when their eyes locked, he appeared to think better on it and there in those depths he understood something; nodded, and stepped back out into the fresh air.

When he turned back to step his way carefully over fallen debris; and through the blackened rubble of what was left of his family estate – he felt no sense of sorrow or grief at the loss of heirlooms; portraits or furniture.

Nothing material here between these walls held any sense of nostalgia or happiness that wasn't contrived or was an outright lie. As he turned to gaze haltingly over this destruction, he could thank Anne for one thing. This house got what it deserved – to be obliterated; decimated without mercy. Her act of vengeance, in some twisted way was a relief to him as well.

Once he got what he came for, he would never come back. Instead, he would attempt to erase this place from his mind. Leave behind this way of life; and never look back. It was time to get on with the business of living.

Steam rising up from the floor caught in his throat, and had him coughing up the lingering smoke. Room after room, he found nothing but ash, soot; ruin – until he entered the bedroom he and Anne shared as husband and wife. He gazed upon the bed – sheets still white with only stains of red wine – the bottle still tipped over dripping out the last of its content.

And there at the foot lay his weapons belt; sword and rapier – all in a row, waiting for him – neatly laid out with a carful hand. Alongside the weapons a small jar sat sealed, and when he opened it and sniffed the contents, could see it was a cream for aches and pains.

When he looked up, the blue sky and warm breeze crept through what was left of the roof. Removing his hat, he swiped the sweat from his brow, and let the gentle displacement of air caress his skin, and calm his nerves.

He could see that someone had been here, found his prized possessions and left them for him in the only room virtually untouched – the bed as he left it; the nightstands intact; the chairs uncharred; vases whole. Someone was watching him; had his wellbeing in mind; had saved his life; and found what meant most to him. For some reason this person wished to remain in the shadows – and so be it.

He could not think who this benefactor could be, then suddenly the scent of Anne; the vision of her flitting about this room bombarded his senses – pushing all thought of guardian angles away, and he groaned in emotional pain. Athos quickly reached for his things; placed the belt about his hips – the sword and rapier in their place and once again could breath, relax, and feel some semblance of self.

Placing the jar in the pocket of his coat; he studied the room one last time – and could hear her whispering promises of love and devotion. Pressing his lips tight, he hardened his heart to such memories and moved to let go of the past and retrieve d'Artagnan.

* * *

Sitting here on the banks of the stream – his coat and shirt discarded on the rocks, Athos could feel the ache and sting of his wound. He had completely forgotten all about it – a scratch was all it was. But d'Artagnan had insisted; and wanted to tend to it before setting off.

Down by the rocks, he could see the boy dipping his scarf into the water – then make his way carefully to him. Over his shoulder – on the other side of the stream, the past meshed with his present, and he could see himself – a gangly adolescent, Thomas, and Remy dive head first into the frigid wetness, then force their way to the surface and bellow with laughter. And there on the banks – red hair askew – Catherine with hands on hips – screeching out at them, "You wretched boys", stamp her feet in indignation, and then stalk away – cheeks on fire.

When he shook his head, d'Artagnan was seated next to him washing dried blood away from the furrow on his arm.

"Aramis would not like it that we've left this unattended for so long", d'Artagnan said with some worry. "And we have no salve to stave off infection."

"Well then – as luck would have it, look there in the pocket of my coat. You will see a small jar of just what we need."

d'Artagnan reached for the coat, and there sure enough was the small jar. He opened the lid, gave a careful sniff and scrunched up his nose with distaste. "Where did you get this?", he asked as he applied a generous amount of the smelly ointment to the graze.

"Left behind by our savior, I think. Who watches us with impressive stealth even now."

d'Artagnan spun on his heels to reach for his musket, but Athos held his arm firm. "Whoever it is , I don't believe they mean us harm."

d'Artagnan frowned with consternation; but relaxed his stance. "Then why not come forward?"

Athos lifted a brow and chuckled slightly, "Does it matter?"

d'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and continued his ministrations. "Well…. We could say thank you." When done with his meager attempt at doctoring, d'Artagnan placed the lid back on the jar, sat comfortably next to his friend; and waited patiently as he slowly put back on his shirt and coat.

And with eyes fixed on the rippling waters spoke up in earnest, "Which by the way, I don't think I ever said thank you for saving my life back in Rouen. So, thank you."

Athos quirked a smile and squeezed d'Artagnan's knee, "But you have. You came back and pulled me from an inferno. You in turn saved my life; and I am grateful." When d'Artagnan lifted his eyebrow in question, for he remembered clearly Athos' wish to die; he reiterated sincerely, "Truly – I am grateful."

Over some moments the two sat side by side – quietly, deep in their own thoughts.

Athos thought on Anne and wondered where she now resided; would he perhaps see her again; what purpose had she, other than his ruination and death. He knew her to be an assassin, and wondered what she had been doing for the past five years – how she lived; what she must have resorted to in order to survive.

He thought on how her actions here in Pinon were as much his doing and what first steps he should take to inhabit the same world as she, now that he knew she lived.

d'Artagnan thought on this mystery that was Athos' life. He had so many questions. Why did Father Breuil; Monroe, and his returned wife wish him ill? Who was it that saved them back at the church, and now watched them from afar? He contemplated also on the ties that seemed to bind he and Athos together and wondered what it meant.

Athos broke the silence between them first. "So tell me d'Artagnan, how did you know to come back?"

d'Artagnan considered the question, bowed his head and let his hair hide the anxiousness on his face. How could he explain it when he didn't understand it himself? What words could he use to express the feeling – overwhelming anxiety that came over him, without sounding unhinged or demented?

"I'm not sure really", he answered with some hesitation. "It was as if a string…." he continued, reaching for his rib.

"….pulled you to come and find me", Athos finished the sentence.

d'Artagnan nodded eagerly and smiled with enthusiasm, glad Athos understood the strange occurrence. "Yes!"

Reaching for his own rib Athos concurred, "I have felt it too - a strange sensation – but strong." He likened it to the sixth sense he got when Aramis or Porthos were in trouble – only different.

"They were angry with me you know – Aramis and Porthos – when I left them. They tried to stop me from coming back, but I couldn't hear them. I had to find you. The string wouldn't let me go."

Athos gripped d'Artagnan's shoulder and shook it lightly with fond regard. "Lucky for me then - yes?"

Lost for some time in painful thoughts of his past and d'Artagnan almost losing his life because of it – he broached the subject tentatively. "When we get back…."

"You needn't worry Athos", d'Artagnan answered and stood resolutely to his feet. "Aramis says a man's business is his own."

Athos stood also, and looked deep into those expressive brown eyes, clearly seeing the unease there. "Which you are now entangled in. Now it would seem that my business is your business."

He sighed then, looked to the heavens unsure how to proceed; how to reveal the depths of his missteps, so instead clapped d'Artagnan on the back and announced, "Come – let us ride."

In what looked like practiced unison, they retrieved their horses, mounted, kicked heels into flanks and swiftly made their way to Paris.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading, commenting, favorting and following this story. To those of you who I am unable to respond – I want to say thanks for your wonderful reviews and from Debbie – twice over! It means a lot to know that readers are enjoying the story. I hope this extra time at the de la Fere estate wasn't too long winded. Also, I wonder if you have guessed who the savior is?!


	7. Chapter 7

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A sense of foreboding resurrects memories of Savoy and threatens Aramis' precarious hold on sanity. While helping him to regain his balance – the musketeers and d'Artagnan begin a new path to strengthen their ever growing bond.

*Very slight season three spoiler.*

* * *

Chapter Seven: Penance

Today

Aramis stood stark still in the overwhelming heat. Sweat trickled from beneath his curls and down into his eyes. Oddly enough, he felt no sting from the salt, and continued to stare straight ahead – back stiff as a board; perfectly at attention.

When his vision blurred, he blinked and the surroundings of bright sun; flags flapping in the breeze; the King slouching petulantly in his royal chair – alongside his Queen, diminished and segued into a wood – covered in snow, ice and blood.

A chill crawled up his spine – he shivered slightly and swallowed down the sensation of being consumed by an arctic blast. He swayed a bit and could swear snow fell lightly about him, and that his fingers and toes were turning blue – burning with cold.

But that was impossible.

Beside him stood Porthos – so close he could feel the brush of his shoulder, and knew he was in the present. He would not make that horrible mistake again. Remaining in the here and now, next to his rock – the touchstone for his sanity - was the ultimate goal. The past of Savoy was five years hence – gone and he must keep it there lest he be overpowered with grief and lose himself….again.

He minutely shifted his feet, gripped his hat more securely and closed his eyes to shut out the snow, the screams and the blood. In the near distance, he could hear the King mumbling on about Savoy and its uselessness – it being a pimple; unimportant – a blip on the map. And those words spoken in disdain had it all flowing back to him in a clear nauseating rush.

His friend's earlier words of encouragement; their care and obvious worry for his wellbeing; his own show of bravado from the night before – telling them that he could do this thing; stand strong in the face of debilitating memories – fell bit by bit to the wayside. All he could sense now was a cold insipid wind that seemed to carry with it a harbinger of death. Something insidious was headed his way – he could feel it.

And then a shot was fired; startling him out of the past. All thoughts of Savoy dissipated, and he was on the move.

* * *

Yesterday

Aramis was in his element – surrounded by gawking recruits and hopeful musketeers. He pushed his hat down tight on his head; wiped sweat from his brow; closed his eyes – lowered his head and pulled the trigger. The sound of the retort echoed throughout the garrison alongside incredulous gasps and running feet.

When he opened his eyes, and lifted his head – smoke curling from the muzzle of his musket – an excited call of "bullseye" from d'Artagnan could be heard down by the target. Grown men groaned; and exuberant recruits jostled each other with excitement. Whispers of "did you see that?" reached his ear and he puffed his chest out the more for it.

Aramis removed his hat and laughed with good humor as coin clinked; fed his headgear and hit the bottom with weight. "Thank you gentlemen", he announced with a slight bow and grinned broadly with panache. "This is all for a good cause, you know", and pat each man solemnly on the back as they handed over their lost monies.

"You might think they would have learned by now", Porthos observed with a shake of his head as Aramis dropped his musket heavily on the table and joined him on the bench for the noon day meal.

"You would think", he agreed and downed a cup of water handed to him by a pleased Serge in one savoring gulp. "Nice shooting" the old man complimented then winked and headed back to his kitchen.

"And what cause would this be for?", Porthos asked as he continued his meal – curious as always what Aramis did with his winnings. But as per usual – he got no real answer. "One well worth their sacrifice", he countered vaguely, jiggling his hat with satisfaction on one hand while reaching for bread with the other.

Porthos chuckled softly at this and wondered for the hundredth time it seemed, what hidden depths lay beneath the air of Aramis' quick smile and affable nature. For it was times like this, when all seemed well on the surface – he could look deep into those dark eyes and see an abject stillness and wished to know what the man was truly thinking.

But as he kept reminding their young recruits – every man had secrets – life altering moments that lay buried beneath the surface. And such moments or events had nothing to do with the true worth of a man, or his dedication to country, crown and brotherhood.

He just hoped that one day, Aramis – and Athos for that matter – men he loved and would give his life for would find it in their hearts to give of themselves – just a little. Perhaps one day, he would even follow his own advice.

In that moment, d'Artagnan rushed the table – upsetting water pitchers; plates and a bowl of fruit as he sat alongside them. Energy radiated from every pore in his body, as he grinned from ear to ear. "That was absolutely magnificent!" He exclaimed with vigor and reached for an apple over Porthos' plate. "Hey, watch what you're doing!", Porthos chastised and brought his food in – protectively close to his chest.

Crunching down for his first bite, d'Artagnan spoke excitedly around his chewing. "I have never seen anyone shoot as you do Aramis – you never miss."

"Will you teach me that trick?" he asked, faced flushed with enthusiasm.

Aramis frowned and pointed a chunk of bread in his direction. "It's not a trick d'Artagnan. It's a well-honed skill that has gotten me out of many a scrape. That skill was imparted to me by a musketeer gone blind – who could shoot a coin from my fingers at thirty paces."

"Yes, but will you teach it to me?" d'Artagnan asked again – eyes wide with hope….and something else.

Aramis took a bite of his bread and considered the request. He had not taught that particular skill to anyone – though many had asked. But something about those eyes, brown pools of earnest honesty and keen spirit, broke him down. Usually he kept such trade secrets to himself.

"Of course", he found himself saying before he knew what hit him.

"Thank you!" d'Artagnan shouted and leaped from his seat, dashing off to rejoin his fellow recruits – who waited nearby – apple left behind unfinished.

Porthos laughed aloud. "I see you cannot resist either", and called out to Serge for more stew.

Aramis smiled in agreement and could see the young men commandeer the range; attempting the skill on their own with little success. No – Porthos was right, he could not resist the eye thing d'Artagnan seemed to have perfected. That boy had weaseled more stories; more training; more sympathy and compromise out of him than his brothers had in the five years he had known them.

Where the three of them had formed a strong bond of loyalty and brotherhood over time – they still held much about themselves close. They were unwilling or perhaps more accurately; afraid to share their frailties.

But d'Artagnan was an open book – who shared much of himself without even realizing it; and did not ask for anything in return. He was becoming quite the little brother – and knew Athos and Porthos could feel it too. Especially Athos, who seemed to him though, troubled of late; was also lighter; much more amiable; less introverted, and he knew it was due to d'Artagnan's influence.

A shadow hovered; Aramis looked up and smiled, for here was the object of his musings.

Athos sat wearily, removed his hat and pushed hair from his face. "Why so weary already brother?" Aramis asked. "It is but only noon. Surely things can't be all that bad?"

Athos sighed, refused a plate from Serge; and scanned the garrison yard. He then peered up toward his Captain – who stood leaning against the balcony railing surveying his surroundings. He recognized apprehension when he saw it; and worried for Treville. Pressure from somewhere seemed to be mounting for him, and he would do all he could to help.

"Where is d'Artagnan?" he queried – looking once again out into the dusty yard filled with men sparring; eating and carrying out various duties.

"After my wondrous display of marksmanship", Aramis recounted and jiggled his hat full of clanging coins – "he has gone off somewhere in the company of other young men to try and replicate my genius."

Athos quirked a slight grin. Yes – d'Artagnan would like to learn a skill such as shooting with his eyes closed he thought. It was something that would appeal to his adventurous nature.

After a few bites of his replenished bowl of stew, Porthos placed his spoon down with deliberate care. "Wait a minute, what is it that has you so apprehensive?" he demanded; and squinted at Athos with a penetrating glare. He sensed something in his guarded state almost immediately. "Don't tell me!" he leaned back with dismay.

"I'm afraid so Porthos – we have been placed on parade duty for tomorrow. And it will be d'Artagnan's first – a good lesson in discipline for him, I think."

"For him, maybe – but why torture the rest of us?" Porthos moaned, gesturing between he and Aramis.

"The King wishes for his best musketeers to be there; and Treville assures me that his best are actually us."

Aramis laughed, coughed up bread gone down the wrong pipe and slapped Porthos on the shoulder in mock compassion. "We will keep you from getting bored brother", he consoled with humor.

"Can you keep the sun from beating down on me? Can you keep the flies from accosting me; or keep my feet from hurting?" he bemoaned with exaggeration and an exasperated sigh.

"I'm afraid not", Aramis pronounced with over the top feelings of sympathy and reached for his cup. "That would be completely out of my purview!"

After some moments of contemplative silence, Porthos couldn't help but to ask, "So who are we standing in parade for this time? Who does the King wish to impress and show us off to; or are we truly protecting him in this venture?"

"The Cardinal's Red Guard will be there as well", Athos answered. "We are to stand in attendance for the Duke of Savoy, as he comes to give his allegiance to France."

As the words passed Athos' lips, Aramis felt his world tilt off its axis. The sun was too bright; the heat stifling; his heart raced – pounded in his chest and threatened to explode. A sudden need flea, to get away before the past engulfed him right here and now rushed toward him – shouting at him to get up.

His mouth suddenly dry, he downed his drink and stood quickly to his feet. "Oi – where are you off to?" Porthos asked – unsure of what just transpired. One minute there was jovial rapport, now – Aramis looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"I've got something to do", Aramis responded ambiguously and picked up his hat.

Porthos grabbed his arm, attempting to read his friend's face. "We'll see you later then?" he insisted.

Aramis softened his features, in the face of such care and gripped Porthos' hand. "Yes – later", he promised, broke free and was out the garrison gates – walking at a fast clip.

Athos frowned. "What was that about? What did I say?"

Porthos lowered his gaze and retraced their brief conversation. When he searched out the worried face of Athos, his eyes were hard – "Savoy", he murmured.

"We have to go after him Athos", he stressed with purpose; and pushed his plate away.

* * *

Aramis sat in the back row of pews and let the horrific memories of Savoy crash around him like an avalanche. He found it hard to breathe; tears escaped of their own volition and his shoulders shook with trembling sorrow. He had not cried with such passion for five years; and felt the pain of his constricted throat, pounding head and tight chest keenly.

Upon entering the church – he had raced to the altar; fallen to his knees and fervently prayed for guidance, help and sanity. Purposely, he had skirted around the musketeer cemetery – just to the side of this small sanctuary and ran inside as if his life depended on it.

And it did.

For five years he had made it his purpose to bury the events of that day – deep into the recesses of his mind. His hope was to give the desolation its own compartment alongside the painful memories of his mother; his childhood fraught with deception; his first love and lost child.

It had been an ongoing mission to keep those compartments locked and separate; so as to not lose his mind. Aramis swiped the tears forcefully from his face and took a deep shuddering breath to stave off hysteria.

It had taken almost a year to recover – to pull his life back together after Savoy. Porthos had become his true friend; pulled him from the edge of a despair so paralyzing that he could not move; let alone take nourishment; care for his most basic needs; or think rationally.

He would forever be grateful and forever love Porthos – not only as his friend; but as his family.

Faith in his mother's God had also brought him through the darkest of moments. God and Porthos had not abandoned him – had not given up on him; had brought him back to life. As Porthos reminded him over and over again during that time; he had survived for a reason.

When he finally emerged from that deep well – never really himself again – but someone new and different; Athos had joined their ranks and slowly but surely, the three of them had become inseparable. They had become the steadfast glue that kept him from flying apart.

But now – Savoy licked at his heels and he could feel his carefully locked compartment about to break open. When he looked down, his hands shook with fear, and he could not fathom his weakness – that all it took was one word to bring him to this unraveling state.

Aramis turned to the cross; clasped his hands, and then murmured with complete devotion and conviction born of an absolute trust, "Give me strength O Lord", over and over again. But the screams of dying men; the hard frozen ground dotted red overtook him, and he was lost among the trees; downed tents; dead bodies and falling snow.

* * *

When they found him, Aramis was seated among the graves surrounded by the twenty. The sun had begun to set and they could just make out the silhouette of him sitting in the midst of the fallen; their crosses reaching out to provide a sort of protective haven.

His hands dug repeatedly in the dirt and as they got closer could see blood on his shredded nails. Porthos reached him first; fell to his knees at his side and knew right away – Aramis was lost in memories of Savoy.

Porthos grabbed up his bloodied hands for inspection, then the sides of his face; searched deep into his eyes and there beneath the anguish was the spark of life he was counting on – not so lost then, he sighed with relief. He then gripped his shoulders and shook him hard – once; twice and then a third time.

Aramis blinked as if just awakened, and before him was his dear friend Porthos; not far stood Athos and standing bewildered and further back – d'Artagnan – who shifted from foot to foot; eyes darting uncomfortably around the cemetery; hands fisted tight at his sides.

He frowned and tried to concentrate.

What were they doing here in the snow? He didn't remember them being in Savoy. He was the only one to make it out alive – how was it they were here? They needed to leave; follow the trail Marsac left so deftly behind of his cloak; his pauldron; his shame – for it was time to join his fallen brothers down into the earth to rest.

"Porthos", he rasped in confusion – peering through the frozen condensation, "Why are you here?" and reached to grab the lapels of the big man's coat.

Brow furrowed with unease, Porthos answered with deliberate care, "We're here to take you home Aramis." He looked to the sky to push back unshed tears; and continued – his voice shaking, "It will be dark soon, and you should come with me so you can rest."

Aramis peered out among the graves, his eyes wet with emotion. "That's why I'm here brother – to lay down and rest." He turned back to Porthos and explained, "You see – I'm so very, very tired. I carried on without them when I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed."

And as Aramis turned away to lay his head down in the grass, Porthos shook him again with strength. He remembered this argument from years ago, and could not believe after five years, they were back to square one. "You did not leave them Aramis", he shouted. "You survived."

But Aramis wasn't listening and pushed away to stare out among the dead – ready to join them in sleep. Undeterred, Porthos reached out and effortlessly brought them both up to their feet and whispered in his ear "Just stand with me Aramis and let's go – yeah?"

To lay here inert would be a dangerous thing. He remembered this – the stillness; inability to move – eat, to function. Aramis wouldn't return to such a state, he would forbid it.

Aramis stood, but planted his feet firmly in the dirt. Perhaps if he did not look at his friend, this apparition that did not belong here in the snow, he would fade away and leave him be.

Porthos sighed with grief. Time was of the essence. They needed to convince him to leave here on his own accord – take him home, and talk sense to him. But to spook him; force him would be….

Caught unawares, Porthos took in a sharp breath as Aramis pushed away from his hold with unexpected strength and speed – and then made to escape into the nearby woods. Stepping forward, Athos spoke up then – an idea taken seed; hoping the man's aversion to command was still intact.

"Aramis", Athos bellowed out with authority, "You will leave this place and come away with us now. This is an order Aramis – you do not belong here."

Aramis stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to meet Athos' authoritative stance. With his hackles raised – he lifted an eyebrow. He did not take well to following orders and would do as he pleased. "It is you who do not belong here Athos. It is you who should leave – not I", and turned to disappear into the night –the instinct of flight now strong.

Hearing some semblance of self and understanding in his friend, Athos dared to forge ahead, and moved closer, "If you will not leave here with us now Aramis, I will hunt you down in the dark; strike you senseless, and carry you from this place."

His back stiff with defiance, Aramis placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Athos replicated the motion, and Porthos could see this all going to hell. Aramis was not in his right mind, and Athos wanted to force the issue. The standoff left a heavy sense of dread in the pit of Porthos' stomach. He hated to see his friends this way.

"I will not say it again Aramis", Athos yelled out and waited with deadly silence for Aramis to make a choice. Feeling the tension rise, Porthos moved to intervene…but from the shadows d'Artagnan spoke up anxiously – unsure – not understanding the precariousness of the situation – unaware of the ghosts of Savoy plaguing Aramis; pushing him beyond reason. "Please Aramis", he pleaded. "Can we not just go?" The cemetery closing in around him, dredging up sorrowful memories of his father buried alongside his mother back in Lupiac.

Aramis blinked, relaxed the grip on his hilt; and there before him, in the dark, d'Artagnan stood – his eyes round and large; seeking him out in the blackness. The snow ceased falling, the breeze blew warm, and his fingers no longer tingled with cold. The twenty were solidly in their graves; no longer calling for him to join them in rest.

"Please", d'Artagnan repeated, and reached out his hand.

Porthos breathed out a sigh of relief as a dazed Aramis looked around uncertainly; a lost look on his face, unclear as to why he stood in the musketeer cemetery; his hands bleeding – his friends gazing at him with worry. "Yes of course", he stammered tentatively and followed d'Artagnan away from the cemetery, toward the streets of Paris, and the garrison.

Following close on their heels, Porthos questioned Athos with a slight tremble to his voice, "Would you have hit him, fought him here sword to sword?"

Athos shook his head, and in his voice Porthos could hear the real fear that things could have gotten out of control, and not ended well. "I don't know. He is my penance Porthos. It is he who keeps me from drowning in my own past sins and misdeeds. I would never purposely hurt him."

"Nor I", Porthos agreed. Perhaps Aramis was his penance as well – his conduit for righting all of his wrongs. He would think on it. But for now they would take him home, speak on his courage, his purpose in their lives – their love and brotherhood. They would get him through this night and many others if need be – no matter hard he fought them.

"You know", he said with a twinge of awe, "it's a good thing Aramis can deny d'Artagnan nothing when he does that thing with his eyes."

"Yes – a good thing", Athos repeated gratefully as they made their way home.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading; leaving your comments; favoriting and following this story. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review, and let me know what you think.


	8. Chapter 8

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: As his birthday approaches, Porthos reflects on his past and how such precarious beginnings, with the help of an ordinary man, begets the start of something wonderful.

* * *

Chapter Eight: Many Happy Returns

Porthos sat alone upon the cracked cobblestone beneath the archway and stared solemnly into the garrison yard where a bustle of activity took place. Men hurried to and fro, moving tables; benches; lighting lanterns and torches to place on pillars. Some just stood around – talking, laughing, emptying cups of fortified drink – revving themselves up for a boisterous good time.

Serge's voice could be heard yelling above the fray for everyone to "get out of the way and let me work".

He leaned his head back to rest against the cool stone, took a cleansing breath and attempted to relax the tension in his shoulders. Darkness had descended hours ago; and the lanterns along with torches lit gave off a warm welcoming glow of the anticipated gathering.

But for now, his thoughts strayed away from the upcoming festivities; and his mind instead fell on other more pressing matters. For it had been a long few weeks; and he was keenly feeling the effects of many a sleepless night – that had him watching over Aramis and wondering what secrets d'Artagnan and Athos shared since their return from Pinon.

Reaching back to press the tight knots from his neck he groaned with frustration. Well, at least Aramis seemed to be on the mend – his good humor returned somewhat. But beneath the bravado he could still sense the lingering ghosts of Savoy flittering about his friend – urging him to freefall in the darkness to join them.

When he thought no one was looking, Aramis stared resolutely out into nothingness – searching for the lost souls of the twenty; and seemed to have found consolation in grieving over his part in Marsac's death.

His eyes were not as bright; his laugh not as merry – but at least he was among them – here solidly in the present; and seemed to wish his good company.

What good company, he wondered? Porthos grimaced at the notion and clasped his hands together tight. His attempts at joviality so far had been lacking; lost somewhere between the lingering struggles of his past and the ever present worries of the here and now.

Some good company he turned out to be. If he was honest – he wasn't in the mood to keep company with anyone. On this day, each year, he inevitably had to fight his way through the mire of his childhood; the loss of his mother; and the grit of long suffering survival, that never left him. Each year, instead of easier – it became harder and harder to come to grips with his past; to understand and know his heritage – to move beyond the need to know who he truly was.

However this was not the time to wallow. He must lift his spirits for within a few hours the garrison would be full on in celebration mode for his annual party; the one he was expected to be the life of. A celebration for him; that would not be taking place, but for one Good Samaritan, an ordinary man – met by fate on a dusky Paris street.

Porthos sighed deeply, picked at the small stones near his feet; and frowned. Midnight bells would sound soon, and it would be his birthday. Not his true date of birth, but a date chosen by a child and bestowed upon him by a good man he did not know – over twenty years ago.

Thinking back on that day, he chuckled at the memory of how he - a small boy with no name; no mother, father, record of birth – was led by the collar away from the court toward a circle of red guards; believing that life as he knew it was over – only to instead end up a new person.

At the time, he had thought the old man an easy target. Finely dressed; a lost look to him, not paying attention to his surroundings – his mind a million miles away. He, Flea and Charon had been schooled by seasoned pick pockets from the moment they could walk – men and women who knew and understood the nuance; the artistry sleight of hand offered.

He knew from his teachings – that this man was the best of marks. The three of them agreed, and he recalled with some melancholia – how Flea had pushed her finger into his chest, and chose him to approach. Porthos could still hear Charon's voice filling him with false courage, "You are the best pick pocket of us!"

The old man would never know what happened. He would continue on –preoccupied with life; his pockets the lighter for entering the court.

But he turned out to be a swift old bird; and turned the tables on him quickly – grabbing for his wrist just as he lifted the prize from the pocket. He learned a valuable lesson in that moment – to not judge a man on his looks for hidden reserves were just that – hidden.

As he was grabbed roughly about the collar, he remembered the fear; the pounding of his heart – his hand still clutching the watch he pilfered from the man's pocket. And then from somewhere he found his own reserves, and dug in his heels – begging the man to stop and held out the watch to return it.

To this day, he could still see the anger disappear from the man's face bit by bit, as he looked down at him with pitying disappointment; and grabbed his shoulders. "Why have you done it?" he had asked. "Why steal from me – who has nothing but this old watch that keeps no time? Who would wish no ill will on any man? And today, of all days."

Porthos rubbed his eyes and behind his lids saw himself shrugging skinny shoulders – holding out the watch – his whole being begging not to be turned over to the Red Guard – to be sent away from his meager home; to not see his best of friends again. Frightened friends, who at that very moment hid themselves within dark corners – watching, unsure what to do.

It would have been prison; the work house or worse. Nightmarish stories told to him of slavery in the America's careened around in his brain; held his imagination hostage and had his eyes watering – panic, a real living entity taking root in his belly.

He remembered that he actually shivered; shook with frantic terror and closed his eyes – ready to be taken away.

But when he opened them, the man had knelt before him; fingers bearing into his shoulders and asked, "How old are you anyway?" And when he could not answer, not just because his mouth was dry with fright – but because he did not know – the man frowned; scrutinized him up and down and answered for him with a tone of certainty, "You look to be about eight; a small eight at that."

The man studied him quietly and queried, "What is your name?" And when no answer was forth coming – shook him slightly, "Go on then, tell me what your name is. I'm not going to hurt you."

His voice small, shaking with apprehension, Porthos recalled giving his name in a hushed, stammered whisper, "Porthos."

Reaching in his pocket now he pulled out that old watch, and caressed the covering as memories flooded back and washed over him like a soothing balm.

"Porthos…what?" the man had insisted, as if on some sort of mission.

He laughed now and the sound of it bounced off the archway to greet him. Back then, on that fateful day, he had recovered quickly from fear of the unknown, to fierce indignation as only children do – and wondered on where he obtained that kind of boldness.

"Only Porthos", he had answered, puffing out his chest – as shame clenched his heart.

The man gripped his chin then – looked down into his soul and saw something Porthos wished to this day he was privy to – for instead of taking back his watch he closed Porthos' hand around it and pressed it tight into his small, trembling hand. Porthos swallowed thickly and could feel Flea and Charon watching them from the shadows.

"Today you are Porthos du Vallon. See here?" He opened the cover and on the inside were letters Porthos could not read. "This says my name, du Vallon. You may have it; I share it with you freely." Porthos remembered how he had nervously laughed; anxious now about the man's sanity - ready to flee. Only, du Vallon held his hand the tighter – the watch captured there between them, a serious look on his face.

"Do you accept my offer?"

Porthos nodded vigorously; stared down at the mystery of such letters; then up into the face of Monsieur du Vallon – who offered to make true, his most fervent wish. Suddenly the man wavered, and in his eyes tears pooled then fell freely to his cheeks.

"But you must promise to do right by this name; to do great things – bring honor to it." Porthos wondered at the catch in the man's voice – the tears in his eyes; but remembered nodding so hard that his neck hurt; gripping the watch so tight – his fingers hurt; believing so much – his heart hurt.

The man stood then and lifted his chin so that their eyes met. "Today is your birthday Porthos. Do you agree that it is as good a day as any?"

In his mind's eye – he could see himself grinning from ear to ear and repeating, "Yes sir – as good a day as any", as he clutched his gift of suspended time to his chest. Monsieur du Vallon rubbed the curls back from his forehead; smiled, then turned away – gone; lost in the maze of fading light and, busy Paris streets.

For many years he had thought the encounter a dream – only the watch he kept with him always, proved otherwise.

Charon and Flea had rushed toward him anxiously – asking a thousand questions he could not answer, but for two – that he was now Porthos du Vallon and today was his birthday.

* * *

Rubbing his thumb across the watch's worn face of time – Porthos smiled slightly; thanked Monsieur du Vallon for sharing his name, and wondered as he did each year on this day of the man who changed his life for the better and disappeared never to be seen or heard from again.

Meeting du Vallon by chance was his first lesson in accepting that not all strangers meant harm; that sometimes people you didn't even know could do good things; see the good in you and act on it. He had taken that lesson to heart – and there beyond the archway stood evidence of it.

As a boy, he had searched the streets daily looking for the man with gray hair, black cloak; and sad eyes. As a man, he had put out feelers and hoped Monsieur du Vallon knew of his commission; that he had found a way out of the court; had learned to read, write and had seen a little of the world; and made something of himself.

He had made good his promise; and bore the name of du Vallon with honor.

* * *

When he returned from his musing of the past, Porthos found d'Artagnan seated next to him on the ground in a similar pose of thought; a melon held lightly in his hands – a curious expression on his face.

"Tell me, why are you sitting over here alone Porthos? It is your birthday, and the celebration has already begun without you."

Porthos turned to see beyond the archway men laughing; drinking; singing and telling outrageous stories of his many exaggerated exploits. Yes – it would seem the party had begun.

"Aramis sends me to ask that you come and drink with us; and to also present you with this melon." Amused, Porthos reached for the melon and there among the garrison full of musketeers – amidst the raucous noise and gaiety stood Athos and Aramis, beckoning him to come; join them, and to let loose of the past and worries of the present, for just a few hours.

Putting away his watch, and patting the pocket where it now rested against his heart with care, Porthos hefted his melon; felt its weight and laughed with satisfaction. In the distance he could hear the church bells strike twelve, and stood slowly to his feet.

At his shoulder, d'Artagnan asked with some hesitancy, "What is the melon for?"

"This… my friend; is a long story. The short of it? It is Aramis' way of telling me that he trusts me with his life."

d'Artagnan stopped short of crossing over into the liveliness of the party brought on by the introduction of wine. "I don't understand what a melon has to do with trust."

Porthos smiled with mischievous mirth – ready to begin the next year of his life on a good note. "Come then d'Artagnan", he bellowed and clapped the boy on the back fondly; "We mustn't keep everyone waiting!"

d'Artagnan smiled up into the eyes of his friend; saw there the glint of exuberant life that was his personality, and pronounced with genuine sincerity, "Many happy returns on the day Porthos", and followed in his wake.

Porthos felt the boy close at his back and his genuine regard flowing to him. Yes – that was his hope as well, to have many happy returns.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed my speculations on Porthos' background. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Aramis and d'Artagnan find themselves in a precarious position of one depending upon another to save a life; which in turn marks the beginning of an understanding between the two.

* * *

Chapter Nine: Ties that Bind

Side by side in silence they rode; and over time he put behind him the fact that this was his first mission since Vadim where Athos was not protectively nearby.

He missed the man's presence greatly and thought back on their departure at the garrison gates some hours earlier. His clipped orders to follow Aramis' lead in all things; to stay close and be sure to return unscathed had his heart aching; for his speech reminded him so much of the very things his father would say to him before a long journey. His cool green eyes bored into his and spoke of many other things beyond words; but he did not catch their meaning – and frowned with uncertainty.

Aramis had laughed then, and exclaimed, "Don't worry so Athos. I'll take good care of this pup. We go to retrieve a woman and child. Nothing untoward will happen – I promise."

And then, after voicing his own reassurances; and before he could question Athos about his concerns, they crossed over the threshold onto busy Paris streets and were on their way.

As they sauntered along through wide open fields; lush woods and quiet roads – he wondered now how Athos and Porthos fared. How the Royal hunt was progressing; and what at this moment Constance was up to – for it was Wednesday noon and perhaps time to hang the wash for drying in the sun?

He could just picture the red of her hair tinted yellow by streaks of sunlight; could hear her humming some off key tune; and smiled. A fleeting impression of her standing across from him – sword in hand; laughing in the face of his smugness warmed his heart toward her and had him thinking all sorts of dangerous things.

Straightening his back, he shook himself awake from such day dreams and dismissed the image of her – wild hair and skirts billowing in the breeze between white linen sheets. She was someone else's wife and he must think on other things. So instead of wistful, perilous thoughts, he stole a quick glance to his left; and studied the man at his side – as close as was possible without outright staring.

The man sat his horse like a prince; wore his hat rakishly and was impeccable in his attire. Women swarmed to him like bees to honey; his fellow musketeers fell under his spell when he told of his many conquests – and he could shoot like no other. He was by far, the best shot in the regiment.

Of the three musketeers he admired and respected most, he had to admit that he understood Aramis the least. His affable, outward nature seemed to belie the poised, dangerous demeanor he sensed beneath. Whereas Porthos embraced him; and Athos counseled – Aramis treated him as little brother with teasing and good natured jests; but at the same time held him at arm's length.

Though all three kept their lives and secrets close to the vest – Aramis to him was a deep well of shrouded mysteries. He smiled; laughed and joked a great deal – but the outward signs of joy never seemed to reach his eyes. And his words, jovial they may be, held an undertone of pain and peril that at times unsettled him.

It was as if he were two men in the body of one.

His eyes were always searching; always seeking – overlooking the present to probe back into the past. He had noticed this even before learning of the man's place as sole survivor of the Savoy massacre; before he killed a friend to save their Captain's life. He bowed his head and sighed with compassion – for he could see how such an experience could mark a man for life. As his part in his father's death marked his. Always wondering – what could have been?

Like the others – Aramis hid much.

Gratefully he did share and give freely of his time; his gift of marksmanship; over the top stories of adventures of love; and advice about women. All these moments he cherished – but he shared little of his true self and thus had him wondering about him and who he really was.

He wished he understood the man the way Porthos and Athos did; or even the way he seemed to understand Athos from the very moment he met him. But that was different he supposed. Perhaps some people you were meant to know right away and with others it took time and patience.

This mission, together then was his chance to really get to know Aramis – if he would let him.

* * *

Aramis could practically feel the intense curiosity rolling off of d'Artagnan and crashing into him. The boy held nothing back – even in his silence.

He chuckled lightly to himself. d'Artagnan wished to know him; and he understood that. The boy's wish to know; to understand all things was already evident in his determination to be the best swordsman; to gain their respect and to be a true musketeer.

He lived and breathed it. Athos nurtured this passion; Porthos supported it and he saw it as inevitable.

But there was too much of him to dredge up; to explain; and to rehash pain that he would rather lay dormant. d'Artagnan need not really know the intricacies of his life in order to be his brother. Leaving such details of his life quietly sleeping was a good thing.

For if he revisited all of his regrets, it would weigh him down into inertia. He had lived that trauma; done that twice over and had promised Porthos and himself not to do it again.

So d'Artagnan would have to know the man he presented. Carefree; breezy – lover of all women and true believer of God's will. This would be d'Artagnan's Aramis - the one whose new mantra was – to not get involved. Stay within himself and be free from heartache; pain and disappointment. God would disagree with this new way of thinking; but he needed detachment for now – or he would go mad.

Looking over his shoulder – he caught d'Artagnan's eye – saw the earnest gaze reach out to him, and knew it would be difficult to tune out such admiration; but he would have to try. As Athos had told him on more than one occasion – "A good soldier never loses control." So, he would have to be strong in the face of such an onslaught of youthful exuberance; questions and the need to know.

So far, he had been somewhat successful in staving off d'Artagnan's gift for getting close. But day by day he was chipping at his armor with expert precision and getting past his defenses. Already, if he were honest with himself – he knew he could deny him nothing if it was in his power to give. Of his brothers – he had always been the younger; the little brother. Now there was d'Artagnan, whose appearance in their lives had shifted all manner of relationships – and it felt natural to now treat him as such.

It seemed this trip; he would need to do a great deal of deflecting, before this boy got to the heart of him.

Athos' recent behavior had him confused. Marsac's death by his hand left him reeling. Porthos' near escape from almost certain catastrophe had him spent. If one more thing were to happen, he wasn't sure how he would react. The musketeers were his family; and they meant everything.

For now, best to stick to his new found attitude – not think on Adele and where she might be; and leave Marsac's ghost in the ground with the twenty. Just better to not get too involved.

"How do you think the others are doing on the hunt?" d'Artagnan asked – interrupting his thoughts.

Glad for the distraction from his inner musings, he answered – "Bored to tears I would expect. Nothing exciting ever happens on those outings. We are lucky to have been given this assignment."

d'Artagnan smiled at him – grinning from ear to ear; about to ask yet another question - and then it happened.

His mount sensed the danger first and side stepped the uncoiling snake as it lifted up from the earth to strike. d'Artagnan's horse raised his front legs in reaction; reared up taller onto his hind legs and threw him from the saddle – caught off guard by the suddenness of it. d'Artagnan hit the ground with force; rolled from beneath the frightened horse's hooves and disappeared from his field of vision.

Dismounting in haste – his heart beating frantically in his chest; Aramis ran to the edge of the road – looked down into a sloping ravine and screamed, "d'Artagnan!"

* * *

Neat rows they stood in – at attention; still as statues. Flags fluttered in the breeze; the sun sitting high overhead – noon it was; and soon they would take to the saddle and follow their King and his courtesans on a frivolous foray into the woods.

Athos squint his eyes forcing himself to concentrate hard on Treville's voice – attempting to keep himself focused; and could feel Porthos at his side attempting the same. For at this very moment he wished that instead of here, he was with d'Artagnan and Aramis – who by now should be half way to their destination of finding Father Duval; getting the whereabouts of Madame Bernard, then retrieving her and her child to escort back to Paris.

An odd missive they had been assigned; seemingly uncomplicated; but all the same worrisome. He closed his eyes and signed with resignation, and had to admit to himself that d'Artagnan and Aramis were as magnets to trouble. From the moment they stepped away from him; mounted their horses and rode on through the garrison gates – he was anxious for their safety.

The two of them – impetuous; young and unpredictable – off on their own, had him nervous and on edge.

Before they rode away Porthos had reassured him; Aramis had promised him; d'Artagnan had frowned and resolutely stated, "I am not a child – and can look after myself. We'll be back before you know it."

But he wasn't so sure. Things happened when d'Artagnan wasn't close. Aramis was reckless when not tempered by their hand. And then it happened.

Athos felt the urgency at his rib immediately and turned east – away from Treville – who stood before the ranks giving the itinerary for the hunt. He could have sworn he heard Aramis calling d'Artagnan's name and knew the boy had found trouble.

Dogs howling, horses braying, hooves stamping into the hard earth – all receded into muffled sound and he no longer could comprehend Treville's words. The King smiled broadly – pointed north over the rise; but the pull east had him looking away toward Aramis' frantic phantom screams.

Roger nudged his shoulder as if he sensed it too. Instinctively he reached for the pommel to bring himself up into the saddle to ride; find his brothers and the source of trepidation that rose up in his throat – causing his heart to pound and blood to rush loudly in his ears.

"Where are you off to Athos?" Porthos ground out in a harsh whisper. "We haven't been given our orders yet."

With the sound of Porthos' voice cutting through the warble of sound, he came back to himself and let the noise filter through his apprehension. He could feel the heavy weight of Porthos' hand gripping his forearm – effectively keeping him from mounting his horse.

"Somethings wrong." he whispered back – and reached for the stitch at his side.

"Are you ill?"

"No I….."

"Mount up men!" Treville ordered over the chaos of camp. The King eagerly followed his command and sat giddy upon his horse looking to Treville with excitement. He added with mirth, "Let us go hunting gentlemen!" Then heeled his horse's flank and raced off at a swift trot – leaving his entourage to catch up.

Athos took to his saddle; looked over his shoulder east – but rode north with his King, who called out with exaltation, "The thrill of the chase – close to divine!"

* * *

d'Artagnan grinned sheepishly around the fuzzy feeling of sleep; and could feel her warm breath at his ear – whispering his name. Underneath the glow of happiness, a haze of pain flared at his temple. He ignored the discomfort; she called again and he answered, "Constance."

She urged with some insistence that he open his eyes –but they were so heavy and all he wanted to do was rest. Stay blissfully unaware and retreat back into the blanketed darkness of sleep – where he could find her and profess devotion in dreams of which he could not while awake. Couldn't she let him have just a few more minutes, where upon he could delight in his desire to find comfort in her arms? There must be plenty of time before he was to report to the garrison. Surely it was still night after all, and if not – just a little more time wouldn't hurt.

He groaned and pleaded – "Just a few more minutes."

But when she demanded with force and a bit of swearing – that he should open his eyes – he frowned in confusion. For it was no longer her calling his name; the tenor of her voice now a deep tremble. If not Constance – who was it now that yelled for him to, "Wake up!"

Where had she gone?

"Constance?" he murmured.

And when she did not answer his call he opened his eyes and found that he was not in his room, under warm covers; dreaming of her. Instead he was met with dirt at his cheek; pain throbbing in his head; a deep chasm that fell away from him down to jagged rocks and rushing water waiting below.

* * *

For some time he had leaned over the cliff waiting for some sign of movement – anything from d'Artagnan to let him know that he lived. Intermittently he would call out to him; hoping to illicit some response. The drop was not a long one; and he prayed that he just may have had the wind knocked out of him; or bumped his head.

Surveying the drop – he had first contemplated scurrying down; but could see no way of bringing him up the side of the embankment; especially if he were badly injured. Secondly he thought about rope – but when he raced to their horses to retrieve it; found that they had brought along none. In frustration, he hit a nearby tree trunk a few times; and with bruised knuckles now sat at the edge of the cliff and kept vigil.

Soon the sun would set and if d'Artagnan were to wake up in the dark – he may lose him yet.

Suddenly he wished to hear d'Artagnan's voice so that he could answer any question put to him; assuage any curiosity; diminish any doubts the boy might have – and let him know him. But all he could do was to wait; be patient – traits he was sorely lacking in.

Closing his eyes, he sent up a silent prayer of safety and protection, for the hundredth time since d'Artagnan went over the edge; and then there it was – a whisper over the breeze, "Constance."

Aramis sighed with relief and pressed his forehead into the dirt and exhaled, "Praise be", as d'Artagnan called out once again with a small uncertain voice, "Constance?" When he moved to rise, and pebbles skittered down toward the water - Aramis yelled down, "Do not move d'Artagnan. Be as still as possible."

d'Artagnan's voice weakly drifted up to him. "Aramis?"

"Yes it's me." His mind whirled – trying to think ahead now as to how to get his friend up here with him.

"Do not move – I am above you. You have fallen and are very close to the edge of where you lay."

He could see d'Artagnan's body stiffen with the news and continued, "It's going to be alright. I'll get you out of this mess. Tell me where you are hurt."

It seemed he waited a lifetime for d'Artagnan to answer. A lifetime in which he conjured up all sorts of scenarios of broken bones; internal injuries; blood loss and Athos screaming in his ear, "You promised!"

"My head hurts", quietly wafted up to his perch and he let out a breath, releasing pent up emotions of worry. Placing his head in trembling hands he prayed once again and thanked God for His mercy. "Is there anywhere else? Can you move your arms, legs? I want you to do so – but very slowly."

d'Artagnan nodded slightly to the smattering of questions Aramis rained down on him from above. He remembered nothing of falling; of how he found himself here on a ledge high above the rocky terrain and racing water below.

His head hurt badly; but he remembered having worse. At least this time he didn't feel the urge to purge his stomach contents. He reached to touch his temple and felt the wetness there. When he pulled his hand away to look – he could see he had been bleeding – a lot. Swiping the blood away with the sleeve of his doublet, he winced as he came in contact with a sore spot at his hair line.

Groaning he sat up carefully and could feel no other injury to his body accept for some soreness at his back, and noticed the many scrapes and cuts on his hands. He supposed he was one lucky bugger and thanked whoever watched over him.

"I said slowly!" Aramis screamed down to him – exasperation lacing his tone tinged with fear.

d'Artagnan nodded again; placed his head in his hands and sat very still, attempting to stem the wave of dizziness that assailed him. How in the world did he get down here? What happened, he thought? How was he to get to the top – and how was he ever to explain this to Athos?

* * *

Having sat still for a time to gather his wits about him; and consider his options – d'Artagnan decided it was time to get moving. Breathing slow in through his nose and then out through his mouth a few times to help gain some momentum – he rose carefully to his feet.

Looking down from the ledge he found himself perched on – he could see that it was a long way to the bottom; eventually leading to foaming water; and staring straight out before him was the horizon – purple and pink dimming light; the vast sky and tops of lush green trees as far as the eye could see.

If not for the precarious situation he found himself in, it was a breathtakingly beautiful sight to behold. Looking up he could clearly make out Aramis – sans his hat and doublet – peering down at him, his face a study in worry and disapproval.

Surveying the wall of rock he could tell that he wasn't that far down. If he could grab onto the outcroppings of rock and foliage – he knew he could definitely climb his way out of here.

He could do this. How often had he climbed his way out of trouble back home in Lupiac? There was the unfortunate incident where he had fallen into the well; the time he stumbled from the fallen tree limb crossing the stream with his cousin; and that day he had crashed through an old mine shaft at the edge of their property.

A wave of dizziness descended over him, so he leaned into the cliff; pressed his forehead to the cool stone and took several more cleansing breaths to help steel his nerves.

From above, Aramis shouted down to him, "What is it you are thinking d'Artagnan?" But he didn't need to ask, for he knew the answer before he opened his mouth. Because it was what he would do – but in the back of his mind he could hear clearly Athos' warning tone, "Don't let him do it."

Taking hold of a jutting outcropping of stone above his head, and lifting his foot to plant firmly between crevices of rock, he answered, "I am thinking to get off this ledge and climb out of here."

Holding out his hands as if to stay his assent, Aramis jumped to his feet and countered, "No, no, no, no d'Artagnan. You are to stand down. Stay where you are. I will go and find help."

But it was too late. d'Artagnan was already making his way up. Decision made – Aramis could see the rhythm of his climb as reach; feet; pull and lift. Flopping down to his belly – he peered down and shouted, "You idiot!"

Sounds of d'Artagnan's laughter floated up to him, and he nervously laughed with him.

* * *

Things were going pretty well. At this pace, Aramis was sure d'Artagnan would make it to the top before night descended. d'Artagnan seemed to have the stamina of youth on his side and climbed at a steady clip; grunted every now and then; and when questioned on how he felt – only chimed out, "Fine."

Aramis got the impression he had climbed out of other perilous situations in the past.

Looking down at his progress, d'Artagnan now was at a point of no return. He was too far up to go back, and not close enough to the top for him to reach down and grab hold of. Keeping a close watch he began to notice an obvious break in the rhythm and concern settled like lead in the pit of his stomach.

Inching forward to get a better look, he could see that d'Artagnan was beginning to tire – his energy level waning – little by little – along with the light of day. When he came to a complete stop; hugged the rocky embankment and gazed up to him in confusion – Aramis knew he had to do something.

So he threw down his life line, and hoped d'Artagnan would catch hold, and not let go.

* * *

His arms felt so very, very tired; and he needed to stop, to rest – just for a bit. But deep down he knew, he could not reach up to grab hold of the next shelf. Every limb was incredibly heavy. His legs were on fire; his head pounded in time with his rapid heartbeat. The air was so thin, that he could not catch his breath. And his fingers were bruised, bloodied, and numb.

He stared down to his sliver of a ledge, and wanted to weep – for he was too far up to go back and rest his aching body. When he gazed up – he was not quite to the top. He was stuck here – unable to move on; his body betraying him just when he needed that push of adrenaline to keep him going.

A cool breeze whisked by; struck his face and rustled his hair about like tall grass. His feet slipped on the smooth rocks and he skidded down; gravity dragging him into a freefall. He reached for anything and everything to hold on to, but his fingers hurt so bad, they would not take purchase.

Suddenly, he felt a tight band across his chest; embrace him firmly; halt his sliding descent and jerk him to a standstill. When he opened his eyes and looked up – Aramis was there at the top – talking to him; calling out for him to, "Listen. Hold on. You are almost there."

So he followed his lead; held on and listened.

* * *

d'Artagnan woke to the sounds of crackling fire; the shifting of kindling and horses' hooves shuffling nearby. It was dark, and the sky was an inky black – with no moon or stars. Light from the flames cast elongated shadows, and for a moment he didn't know where he was or what had happened.

Last he remembered, he was climbing up the side of the embankment – weary and ready to give up.

Reaching for the sore spot on his temple, he groaned and then held out his hands to examine the cuts and scrapes there – now free from blood. Staring at him from across the pit was Aramis – a weak grin on his lips; pushing hair from his forehead as if exhausted.

"How are you?" he asked. And after a moment, when d'Artagnan seemed incapable of answering, added lightly, "You know we can tell Athos nothing of this little side adventure. He will kill us both."

Turning to lay on his side, d'Artagnan frowned, and then with an incredulous look on his face he exclaimed, "Thank God you found a rope. Where did it come from? How did you get it down to me so quickly?" his memory returning in a rush.

Aramis shook his head; leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "No d'Artagnan, there was no rope. You climbed the side of that embankment on you own, and made it to the top. When I pulled you over the edge; you collapsed from exhaustion in my arms, and have been asleep ever since."

d'Artagnan lay very still, and searched his recollection of events. That couldn't be so. He reached for his chest and could still feel the pull of the rope.

Aramis studied his friend closely, and could see the evidence of his confusion – as a myriad of emotions played out over his face. "You hit your head pretty hard. A nasty bruise – here", he offered; tapping the side of his own temple. "Tell me, what you remember."

d'Artagnan shut his eyes and reached back to find the memories; and recounted softly, "I couldn't go on; and began to fall. You called down to me. The rope was taunt, secure; and you pulled me up. You said to hold on and to not let go." d'Artagnan opened his eyes and then smiled over the warm light. "You told me about your mother. How she sacrificed everything for you. How she poured her faith into your heart. That if we prayed hard enough – God would not let us down."

Aramis nodded, and smiled back, "And he certainly came through for us today. But d'Artagnan, there was no rope."

d'Artagnan thought on this, and wondered what it could mean. Was this a miracle of some sort; or was it as Aramis had said – that he hit his head pretty hard, and did not see things as they were. Aramis stood then, placed his blue cloak over his body; and the heat from the flames along with the warmth of the cloak had his eyes growing heavy with sleep.

Aramis smiled fondly, leaned over, and pushed wayward bangs from d'Artagnan's forehead then whispered, "Get some rest brother – tomorrow we continue on with our mission." And before he could rise; return to his place on the other side of the pit, d'Artagnan grabbed for his hand; held on tight and in a quiet, sincere voice asserted, "Thank you Aramis for saving my life, and for letting me get to know you."

With lids blinking slow and heavy, he continued uninhibited, "I understand you now. You're the rope – the one who pulls us up when we are about to give up. You're the one who holds on and keeps us from falling."

And then he was asleep; breaths even – steady; his rest – dreamless.

* * *

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It sort of got away from me – and so I hope is not too convoluted. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: The beginnings of unattainable true love; flirtatious admiration; and begrudging favors owed are recognized as an assassination attempt is foiled and bonds are strengthened.

* * *

Chapter Ten: Reverie

Murmuring voices, rhythmic toes tapping against polished marble floors; violin strands; harpsichord trills and lutes lilting above the heat of flaming chandeliers and candelabras resting on golden stands – had his head spinning. What dream world was this – he questioned and pinched himself for good measure.

The overpowering sensation of bright color, intertwined with smells of meats; pastries; and scented powders was a lot to take in. He had never in all his life seen such a spectacle of opulence, over the top make up – wigs, brightly tinted gowns with flashes of twinkling sequence and coats adorned with shiny buttons.

Looking down he studied his calloused hands, brown doublet and worn soled boots. Out of place; under dressed and underprivileged – he felt here among these advantageous favorites of His Majesty. A vision of Alexandre d'Artagnan toiling in the hard dirt of Lupiac flashed through his mind. What would his father make of such a sight – he wondered; and his son, a farmer at heart, here to witness such extravagance?

Outside this gilded cage of gold leaf decoration; vaulted ceilings painted by the masters; wine and spinning dance – many people of Paris and beyond her city borders, lived in abject poverty. Through no fault of their own, these hard working, ordinary people were unable to scrape two livres together in order to make ends meet; feed their children or make a decent living.

The wealth alone in this one room could feed the whole of Paris – he thought – for a week; maybe more. Fisting his hands tight, he stared out on the array of gaiety with awe; trepidation and much sadness. As Captain Treville suggested - it was best not to think on such things – just mind his manners; stay focused and do his duty – protect the King and his royal party.

So he put aside thoughts of disparity among men; walked the room slowly, smiled politely and gripped the hilt of his sword – hoping not to overlook something gone amiss amongst all the pomp and circumstance.

As the evening pressed slowly on, keeping his eyes peeled for trouble was becoming more and more difficult. Introductions into the ball room were being made at a fast clip and more people than he thought possible continued to squeeze into the already overflowing room.

So much was happening all around him. Billowing gowns swished and swayed in monotonous unity to the music; servants navigated through the throng of close sweating bodies of chattering aristocrats, traversing seamlessly around lively dancers; red guards and musketeers alike. Drink and food flowed past him, and he licked his lips to give them some sense of moisture – for his throat was parched and his mouth dry as sand.

The room was packed tight. The heat, the tapping; the strands of the ballet distracted him to no end. Athos had warned him during their briefing with his fellow recruits to stay on point, and not let the new sights and sounds of the wealthy overtake his sense of duty.

Looking out through the mass of courtly revelers, he could just make out his counterparts. Renard, Jaquez, and Marcus executed their turns around the outskirts of the room and smiled his way as they made eye contact. Smiling back, he wondered if they like him, were mesmerized by this foreign world, were hungry and above all hot, thirsty and a bit bored. What was the point of being at a party if you couldn't enjoy it?

A little water would be nice – he inwardly groaned. A short break to walk among the gardens in the cool air was what he needed. But when he scanned the room again, and noticed how Aramis stood vigilant alongside the Queen; how Porthos shadowed the King as if a cloak; and Athos hovered, an unwavering study in concentration at Cardinal Richelieu's elbow – he decided not to complain.

After all he was here to learn; to be of service – so that one day he would wear the pauldron and be considered an elite body guard of His Majesty.

d'Artagnan took a breath, dismissed his hunger and thirst, and then continued on his rounds of the great hall. And as he cast an eye over the room for anything untoward – there before him – through a maze of twirling merriment stood Madame Bonacieux … Constance. Without his permission, his feet grew roots and he could not look away. Of all the finery here, she stood out as the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.

Her simple, yet elegant dress of hunter green complimented her figure and set off the auburn of her hair. Swept up in a fashionable bun exposing her shapely neck; curls framing her face – she was the perfect picture of grace. Bare shoulders shown like alabaster and had him flushing red about his ears.

Her smile dazzled as she took in all the activity around her with giddy pleasure; her cheeks blushed a wonderful shade of pink, while her eyes practically sparkled with life. There were no words to express how incredibly happy it made him to see such joy on her face. He could tell she wanted to dance; and watched with some amusement as she tapped her foot lightly and swayed back and forth in time with the trilling harpsichord.

What he would give to take her hand; bow low - then embrace her in his arms and twirl her across the shimmering polished floor for the world to see.

Aware he was that the Bonacieux's were invited here to the palace this night. This special ball to present King Louis' libretto and costumes he himself designed for his Ballet de la Marlaison. Invited they were, as Constance had excitedly imparted to him weeks ago – because Monsieur Bonacieux's cloths were to be used to create the fine garments. "What a wonderfully divine reward for all of his hard work", she had exclaimed with a hint of pride.

She had talked of nothing else for several days as she flitted about the house cooking; cleaning; and preparing her own gown for this auspicious occasion. And there she was – outshining them all; brighter than any tiara, diamond necklace or emerald clasp. Bonacieux stood proudly at her side – holding her hand placed in the crook of his arm. She smiled so openly up at him as he pointed out the costumes worn with panache on the dance floor.

A flood of something he did not recognize filled his heart, and he frowned attempting to discern its meaning. And then a sense of clarity descended.

He knew then; knew in that instant that he loved her – that he had loved her all along, from the very beginning. His heart skipped a beat…he was in love with another man's wife; had been since the moment he met her; gathered her in his arms and kissed her. It was as if he had always known her. He could not help himself. Could not help that he wished it was his arm she held onto; his side that she stood by; his countenance she graced her smile upon.

And as he turned away to hide his emotions; still his pounding heart; and gain back his composure – a single shot fired from a musket and all hell broke loose.

* * *

Over the past five years she had been aware of him on many occasions in attendance, but more so on duty at such court functions as this – standing proud, stoic; a melancholy air about him. But tonight was the first time she really noticed him – took stock; separated him from the others in similar uniform, and truly saw the musketeer…..Athos.

Upon entering the ball room, without realizing it, she found herself searching him out. The room was extremely crowded, but eventually she found him – standing still; cool in the stifling heat of bodies in close quarters. Positioned beneath the royal tapestry; at attention near Richelieu's elbow – his emotionless green eyes roamed the room, skimming over her face without recognition and causing her breath to catch in her throat.

He was magnificent – more beautiful than handsome; lean, tall, and moved with languid ease. The brim of his hat seemed to serve as a shield against the ardor directed his way. Either he did not know it – or cared little for such things, but she could sense every female eye in the room gaze at least once in his direction and comment on his good looks with a slight raise of an eyebrow, a lick of the lips, a blush of cheeks – all hoping he would look their way…..even if only for a moment; and see them.

Placing a hand at her neck, she had to admit that she wished it also. The heat there, rising to smolder in her eyes, a dead giveaway for her attraction to him. But he had eyes only for his duty; so she was content – as were the others here to admire from a distance and wonder what woman among them already held his heart.

Chuckling lightly to herself; she thought on this uncharacteristic response to him – to any man for that matter. For she prided herself on being independent in thought, progressive – educated and in no way beholden to any man or the constraints of how society thought a woman should live.

What was it about him that drew her in? Was it the startling green of his eyes; the curl of his hair at the nape of his neck; the twitch at his cheek that belied the relaxed nature of his body? Or was it something other than his pleasing physical attributes? Something below the surface that he dare not expose, but she could sense none the less?

"Ninon, my dear Comtesse, how pretty you look", exuded the King with genuine delight – himself decked out in his most regal attire; proud in his choice of wardrobe - if his boyish grin was of any indication. "Come, take a turn about the room with me", and held out his arm in invitation – her thoughts now all but scattered with the interruption. She could not refuse, so bowed low in acquiescence; and flipped open her fan to flutter swiftly in order to cool her heated neck. She then walked with her King, along with the very large, intimidating musketeer Porthos who followed closely at their backs.

After a few turns; upon failing to interest His Majesty on the just merits of her cause of educating the women of Paris, Ninon tuned out his prattle; let him go on and on about some empty subject that he was so animated about; and did not listen. Instead she found her gaze once more upon the intense musketeer Athos – and daydreamed as to what were his interests; what were his beliefs; and how would his lips feel against hers. What would he think if she broke etiquette, left her King's side, and dared approach him?

Would he smile; be transformed and take note of her?

Suddenly a single staccato retort overpowered the music, and brought every sound to a brief halt. The musketeer Porthos pushed King Louis to the ground; covered him as a blanket, effectively dragging her down with him. When she looked up from the floor – there was total pandemonium.

* * *

Athos felt totally on edge. The room was too crowded; overflowing with noise and activity. So many things were going on at one time. It took every bit of concentration he could muster to keep focused on his charge.

Richelieu stood to his right airily discussing some political point with a nobleman of rank – Treville nearby in attendance; his brothers, fellow musketeers and recruits as well as red guards spread out among the crowd.

Notes from the ballet floated above the clamor of sound and instead of a sense of gaiety and lightness, the tune of the libretto grated against his nerves. Not only did the frivolity of this scene rub him wrong, but this way of life, this purposeless gaiety and falsehood had him rigid with memories he would as soon forget.

He gripped tight the hilt of his sword, heavy on his hip and narrowed his eyes as sweat trickled down the side of his face into his beard. The heat was stifling, but he ignored it and cursed Richelieu under his breath as the man attempted to leave his side and shake his protection for the hundredth time it seemed over the past few hours.

This controlled circus couldn't end soon enough as far as he was concerned.

As he swept the room again, a tingling sensation had him shivering, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Suddenly a sense of foreboding overcame him, a weight of dread that fell heavy about his shoulders; arms and legs. Everything around him unnaturally slowed down and took on a surreal quality as if he walked beneath water and all was submerged with him.

Something was about to happen, something unseen; covert – missed among this melee. He sought out d'Artagnan who seemed safe enough – his brothers; the other check points….nothing. Aramis caught his eye and frowned at his silent question of "do you sense it?"

Zig zagging toward him through the maze of people, he could make out Henri de Talleyrand-Perigord, the Comte de Chalais – head of King's wardrobe. Always a presence at these events – he was one of King Louis' favorites at court. A smiling, ingratiating sort of man – a constant fixture; wholly trusted by His Majesty; and barely tolerated by His Eminence.

But something about him now set off warning bells as he moved with purpose through the crowd to intercept the Cardinal. His face now relieved of sniveling servitude showed instead a firm determination; a before undetected since of purpose. Eyes wild with single minded deliberation; face powdered white; lips unnaturally red, Chalais stepped close and yelled out, "For France!"

And in his slow downed surreal world, a musket appeared from beneath the man's glittering gold coat; and without thought Athos moved to stand before a startled Richelieu.

Knocked from his feet by a forceful blow to his side, Athos met the floor with a jolt. Air rushed from his lungs and the pain blossomed from a mere punch to an all-consuming fire within seconds.

Sound dispersed and he wondered if along with being shot he had also gone deaf. Squeezing his eyes tight, he attempted to draw in breath, to ease the constriction in his chest. All he could think was that he must get to his feet – see if Richelieu survived the attack; see to his brothers – know that Chalais was taken into custody, and that King Louis was protected.

But he could not breathe, could not move – control of his faculties lost in a haze of unbelievable pain. When he opened his eyes, darkness encroached around the edges of his vision – spots danced before him like flies over a corpse. He yelled out in frustration; hoping to stave off the inevitable, but knew that soon he would lose his battle with trying to remain conscious.

Without warning, real time emerged, and a cacophony of noise rolled toward him with extraordinary speed. The pain at his side heightened, and engulfed him along with an agonizing physical torture he had not felt since the day he condemned his wife to death.

Feet ran past him; screams rent the air; instruments clanged to the floor sending notes of dissonance to accompany the notes of terror. Aramis was bending over him – holding his face – saying words he did not understand. A beautiful woman with honey blond hair pulled up the hem of her flowing pale blue gown; tore her petticoats to shreds; and knelt by his side – a dangling wren at her neck catching the light. He could smell the scent of flowers that adorned her hair.

His last memory before succumbing to darkness was of her – pressing silk undergarments to his wounded side – his blood on her hands.

* * *

Biting his nails didn't help; pacing did not alleviate his fears; and rushing the room only got him restrained, then banned from entering the infirmary.

d'Artagnan held still and glared with menace at the closed door. Doctor Gerard had been adamant – Athos needed absolute quiet. Disturbing him was out of the question. There would be no visitors for the time being. Only Lamont – the doctor's assistant would be allowed in to tend to his needs. "There will be no excitement", the doctor had lectured – staring hard in d'Artagnan's direction.

Biting his lip, he flopped down in a nearby chair with exasperation. He just wanted to see for himself. The procedure to remove the musket ball – to clean away bits and pieces of material to clean out the wound had taken hours. Aramis assisted the doctor; Porthos and Treville had been there to hold him down – while he had been told to sit and wait; relegated to hearing Athos' screams – unable to provide comfort.

And he had done just what was asked of him – along with his fellow recruits; Serge; musketeers and even a few red guards who stopped in to ask how he was doing. So when they finally left the room – tired, weary; Athos' blood on their clothes, hands and streaked on their faces – Aramis had been cautious with the news. Removing the ball had been difficult – Athos would need to rest; his body had been through a terrible shock. But he lived, and with due diligence along with his infamous stubborn streak, should survive and recover.

He understood what Dr. Gerard and Aramis were saying. He did. But this waiting here was not something he could do much longer. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath; attempted to cleanse his mind, but the frantic race to the infirmary – Porthos running with Athos in his arms as if he were a sleeping child – still haunted him.

The aftermath of the shooting had been chaos. Screaming, frightened nobility – servants; and musicians racing from the hall; Treville yelling above the noise for order still echoed in his mind. Athos on the floor bleeding out; a puddle of red forming beneath his still form – Aramis shouting his name caused his eyes to sting even now.

Treville had taken control of the confusing scene immediately – instructing recruits to escort people out into the courtyard and be sure they made haste to their carriages and embark for home; for musketeers and red guards to search the palace grounds and to "Find Chalais!"

When Porthos and Aramis took off with Athos – he moved to follow; but Treville caught him about the arm firmly stating in his ear, "About your duty d'Artagnan." So he had vigorously with anger; pulled away from his Captain about to disobey. But when he turned to leave there stood Constance watching him with compassion in her eyes; her husband nowhere in sight. She held out her hand as if beckoning him to her side. Bowing his shoulders; his anger dissipated; he succumbed to her will without question and helped to lead her out to safety – stunned musicians close behind.

Now – a day later; Aramis, Porthos, Captain Treville a contingent of musketeers and red guards were gone – off to hunt down the would be assassin – the Comte of Chalais, while he had to endure sitting outside the infirmary door hanging onto every word about Athos' progress.

Beside himself with worry he buried his face in his hands and groaned. The last he saw of Athos he was pale, limp and bloodied. He seemed dead – but Aramis had performed a miracle – had done what he always did – pulled Athos back from the brink. Relief and happiness at the success of surgery had spread through him like a wild fire. He had wanted to go to him then, but Porthos had gripped his shoulders, "Not yet", he whispered – with an edge of apprehension tinged in his voice. "Let him get cleaned up and rest. Come and see us off. We leave to find Chalais within the hour."

So he had waited once again. Stood in the garrison yard to say his farewells; wished his friends a safe journey, and to bring Chalais to justice. But before riding away Aramis had spoken earnestly with him. "Stay near" – he urged, "And tell him…." With his voice quivering he continued, "No, never mind. I suspect when he sees you, he will know." Then they were gone in a rush of dust and pounding hooves.

He stood for some time in that very spot – disappointed not to be with them; but glad to be here for Athos. Bent on revenge; with a need to go and find the man responsible – but afraid to leave.

He tried to do what Aramis asked of him – what he wanted more than anything – to stay near. But after a day of waiting, this hallway wasn't near enough. Mind made up, d'Artagnan stood; shored up his resolve; disobeyed Doctor Gerard's directive and entered the room.

* * *

It was so quiet beyond the door. One candle glowed warm on a nearby table, and flickered soft light about the room. The infirmary was free of others, except for where Lamont sat ramrod straight at Athos' bedside and seemed none too surprised to see him standing on the threshold.

The fire in the hearth gave off a sweltering heat of orange flame, and he could feel sweat forming at his brow after only seconds in the room. Eyebrows rising up to his hairline, Lamont waved him over. "Well then – if you insist on being here – come all the way in."

Now that he was finally here – he was inexplicably afraid; but stepped slowly toward the cot where Athos lay still and pale. Lamont rose from his seat, and stood close to his shoulder – pointing to the beside stand, "Now he has fever – so wipe him down and keep him as cool as you can with the water here in the bowl."

d'Artagnan nodded absently, his chin trembling with emotion – now a witness to his friend's dire condition. Lamont gripped his arm and gestured toward the water pitcher and cup, "Have him drink if you're able. I've been using this spoon to get it down him."

A stray tear escaped the corner of his eye and traced a path down his cheek. d'Artagnan quickly swiped at his face and berated himself for being such a child. Athos needed him. Aramis and Porthos needed him to get a hold of his emotions and stay close – take care of their friend.

Lamont then grasped his shoulder, "He has not opened his eyes lad – but with you here; perhaps now that will change. I'm going to take a break – sleep there down by the door; and will see you in the morning before Doctor Gerard comes in to check on him." With that Lamont quietly pushed him down in the vacant chair and moved to lay his head to pillow – a warm but sad smile on his face.

Once alone, d'Artagnan took in a sharp breath and studied his friend closely. Other than the slight tremors that wracked his body; and the shuddered rise and fall of his chest due to labored breathing; Athos did not move, or groan, or sigh. Leaning over he whispered in his ear, "You will see. Everything is going to be alright.", and picked up the damp cloth ready to begin the task of keeping infection at bay.

As he dipped the cloth in cool water, he realized suddenly that the room was much too quiet; too still – stagnant of life. Athos wouldn't like it he surmised, so as he wiped his friend's brow; pushed back tangled hair, and spoke of Constance – lamented on how beautiful she looked at the ball; how much he loved her; and that one day he would summon the courage to tell her so – married or not. And for the next hour spoke of nothing but her bravery; kindness and strength.

"A formidable woman – wouldn't you say?", he asked earnestly and sighed when there was no response.

During the midnight hour, he stoked the fire; returned to Athos' side and began again – rubbing the cool cloth along bare shoulders; arms and over the angry red wound at his side. He spoke of their misadventures in Pinon and pondered over the identity of their bow wielding savior. "Do you think we will ever know who saved our lives?"

Then just before dawn, he spoon fed water; silently thanked God that Athos swallowed; and told the story of his near fatal fall down the side of a ravine – and how by some miracle Aramis saved his life and pulled him up the slippery slope with rope that was not there.

And as the early tendrils of daylight crested, he wearily laid his head at Athos' shoulder and promised, "I will rest my eyes for only a moment", and did not hear Lamont open the shutters to let in the air and light to welcome the day. Did not feel him remove the cup and spoon from his hand or place a blanket about his shoulders.

* * *

Athos found himself, for no reason he could recall, clinging to the side of ravine. His side ached terribly and throbbed painfully in time with his rapidly beating heart. He did not know how long he had been hanging on here – or even why, but his arms were incredibly tired; heavy and unresponsive – weighted down by some impediment he could not see.

Cool air washed over his face; rustled his hair – and when he looked down a fire raged; burned angrily over the foliage, while flames reached up to grab at his heels and pull him into the heat. His wife screamed up at him from the edge of the flames to "Jump – leap down and join me in hell!"

At his side d'Artagnan smiled brightly – not tired at all, climbing upward with the ease of youth and yelled to him, "Aramis says that if we pray hard enough – God will not let us down. Keep going Athos – I'll meet you at the top."

And when he looked up, there were his brothers waiting. Aramis leaning over the edge with his hand outstretched, and Porthos urging him to, "Don't give up!" A wren screeched by his ear with open wings; and when he opened his eyes the dream wafted away with the breeze through the open window along with Porthos' encouraging words out into the bright sunshine.

When he blinked again, Doctor Gerard's kindly blue eyes met his. "Welcome back Monsieur", he said softly and completed his task of covering Athos' wounded side with clean linen bandages. "It is good to see you awake and with us."

Athos frowned, swallowed and attempted to bring his surroundings into focus. He was in the infirmary; his side hurt like bloody hell; the ball – Richelieu. "Chalais", he croaked out; and moved to get up.

But the fire at his side had him groaning, and falling back to his pillow – biting his lip and drawing blood. And when he no longer saw white and could catch his breath – felt Gerard squeeze his shoulder and speak, "That is not a good idea Monsieur."

Athos chuckled; licked copper from his lip and agreed whole heartedly on the wisdom of such words, then wondered about his friends, and aloud inquired, "Where is d'Artagnan?", who he knew could tell him of what transpired while he slept.

Doctor Gerard laughed also, and gestured to his side. "He sleeps here at your side. It seems Lamont could not resist his entreaty to stay and be near."

Athos looked down and true enough, there slept d'Artagnan – oblivious to the world around him, his hand resting on his arm; head at his shoulder – uncomfortably seated in the chair beside him – breathing steady, deep and slow.

"Would you like me to wake him, and have him…?"

Athos lifted his hand to stay the good doctor; and ruffled the boy's hair fondly, remembering now his unlikely dream of d'Artagnan beside him, clinging to the side of a ravine; smiling – confident they would make it to the top, and promptly drifted down into much needed sleep.

* * *

When he woke again, Athos could see that evening was near. Streaks from the setting sun filtered through and walking toward him from a shadowed corner of the room was Cardinal Richelieu, a scowl on his face – as if he were himself in pain.

After a few moments of mutual regard and inspection, Richelieu seemed to make up his mind about something and spoke haughtily with slow deliberate intent. "It seems Monsieur Athos that I owe you thanks for saving my life. A selfless act of bravery that not many men would undertake."

Athos shifted; pulled himself up to a seated position to have his back against the wall; studied the Cardinal with suspicion and bowed his head slightly. "My duty Your Eminence", he countered coolly.

Richelieu nodded back in acceptance of the truth of the statement.

"Yes – your duty for which I am grateful and have decided to repay with you with a favor. One favor only. For it will not be said that I owe something to any man."

Athos pressed his lips tight, as a heavy pause permeated the room. "And I will know your favor for what it is when you beg me for it; and if deemed worthy – I will grant it."

Athos squint his eyes and opened his mouth to disavow such a gift when in that moment d'Artagnan entered the room balancing a tray of food, accompanied by a wide smile, and an energy level that pushed aside the bleak offer of a strings attached favor, he did not want.

"I've brought your dinner. Serge has prepared all of your favorites…"d'Artagnan began with enthusiasm; but silenced his speech upon seeing the Cardinal looming over Athos' beside.

"Your Eminence", he said politely and lowered the tray to the nearby table.

Taking advantage of the uneasy quiet in the room, Athos asked, "What of Chalais?"

"He escaped the Louvre through a hidden passage way. Treville has taken a contingent of musketeers and red guards to track down the traitor and bring him back here. They are not to return without him." As he moved toward the door, Richelieu called over his shoulder, "Do not think too much on him musketeer. When he is brought into custody, I will seek retribution for his treachery for the both of us. Chalais will meet justice in a painfully beheading way", and with that left the room without saying anything more.

d'Artagnan let out a breath he did not know he was holding and sat heavily with a sense of relief; glad Richelieu took his dark aura out of the room with him.

After a moment he regained his positive disposition; lifted the tray and sat it on the cot ready to help his friend enjoy the evening meal. And as he moved to fill a cup with water – Athos remarked with some amusement – Richelieu all but forgotten and inquired, "Tell me d'Artagnan – what is this about you falling off a cliff?"

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a review and let me know what you think! Just to clarify here – I have played fast and loose with history and hope it doesn't detract too much from the story. I want to say "Thank you" to all of you who have read; reviewed; favorited and who are following these 'beginnings'. Your thoughts are very much appreciated and make my day. You have no idea how many times I re-read your reviews!


	11. Chapter 11

Beginnings

By: Musketeer Adventure

Summary: A debt honored leads to the beginning of something gladly unexpected; but sadly ends before it can take root. (Just a bit of what if.)

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Nectar

Athos thought he was no longer the impulsive type. Five years of crushing grief; and guilt had suppressed not only his will to live with joy, but to love with abandon.

Overtime he prided himself on being a very careful, thoughtful and deliberate person. Someone, who learned the hard way the benefit of weighing each decision; who found the merit in listing the pros and cons; and thinking ahead to the consequences of his actions. Many found this coping mechanism haughty; aloof – but to him, it was a necessity born of despair.

Painful, life altering lessons brought him to the conclusion that he must always put his head over affairs of the heart. Love would not catch him unawares again; for if it did, he would surely be destroyed beyond what little redemption he secretly harbored.

He believed in and preached this long held philosophy enough to d'Artagnan, and to anyone else who would listen – convinced it was the answer to staving off further damage to his already broken soul. A soul dammed to hell; condemned by choices made impetuously without regard to its effect on the future.

But looking down now at the Comtesse de Larroque resting in his arms, he knew there had been no way to resist her. No way to rationalize his attraction to her beauty, her mind or her body. She overwhelmed his sense of order; subtly beguiled him and all reason abandoned his carefully constructed list of why this was a bad idea.

Incomprehensibly, finding himself here in this empty estate, alongside her between pristine sheets of silk – the warmth of her pressed to his side; was astonishing to him. A pleasant turn of events he would have never thought possible or could have ever predicted.

In the aftermath of their slow, intense heat of lovemaking, he felt oddly comforted and content. He had not given of himself so freely to a woman without suspicion, without doubts or self-recrimination in five years. Always he questioned; examined; reserved judgment and found himself lacking in deserving companionship or at the very least, the caring company of a woman.

Caressing her damp shoulder – he sighed deep and for the briefest of moments, released his fears; and instead reveled in this foreign ambiance of tenderness and ardor.

Somehow it felt right to be here. To be entangled in her embrace, to press hands together in earnest; to breathe in with relief the shared passion between them – a welcome respite from the backbreaking nuance of self-inflicted torture.

Feeling a shiver overcome her slight frame – he pulled the sheet up to encompass her bare back; shoulders; arms, and then pulled her closer still; her leg reaching out to snag his beneath the coverlet – toes wiggling at his ankle.

That she lived; that Richelieu kept his word of promise – if he were to beg for it was a welcome surprise. He had not wholly believed the offer of such a favor when it was given some months ago; did not know the Comtesse at the time or could have foreseen these events.

Back then he was consumed with recovering from his injury by de Chalais' hand; with waiting for the safe return of his brothers whose mission it was to track down the traitor and bring him to Paris for interrogation and impending death.

And to his relief, Aramis and Porthos had returned, successfully escorting Henri de Talleyrand-Perigord, the Comte de Chalais – disheveled, weary and defiant – announcing his undying allegiance to Gaston d'Orleans as the true King of France. Spitting toward the Cardinal in a rage; here was yet another man lost in damnation due to poorly made choices of the heart. He shuddered, recalling that even as he mounted the scaffold – the former head of King's wardrobe did not waver in his fanaticism.

Over the five years of his service to France, he knew that Richelieu's word was a fluid thing, which held many hidden meanings; none of which included complete truth or trust.

In his mind's eye he could picture clearly the cruel tinge of Richelieu's promises. That he would bring Chalais to justice by beheading was brought to fruition. That he would then pluck an inexperienced red guard from the crowd of onlookers gathered to witness the man's execution to accomplish the deed was horrendous.

It took the shaking, puking wretch thirty strokes of the blade to complete the task. His sweaty hands, unable to keep a firm grip on the axe; and lacking the strength to strike through bone effectively, the execution - which should have lasted but a moment went on it seemed for hours.

The anguished screams and reverent prayers of the suffering Chalais showed the depths of Richelieu's depravity – as they all looked on in revulsion; forbidden to turn away.

Tracing the outline of her hip, he closed his eyes to the thought that Ninon might have died horribly by fire, accused wrongly of witchcraft. Spared only at his bequest on bended knee; to have now lost everything – her home; her love for teaching; her good name was a twisted homage to His Eminence's definition of honoring his debt owed. A debt honored only, by his own account - to aide his beloved France with her fortune.

Interrupting his melancholic thoughts, Ninon wove her fingers through his as if to clasp onto him and draw him away from the edge of such gloom. He squeezed firmly back and pressed small knuckles to his lips. She smelled of freshly washed linen bleached by the sun; and tasted of tangy, sweet honeysuckle which brought forth a long ago memory of he and Thomas as boys – lying in the tall grass, sucking nectar from the bulbous flower – smacking their lips together and laughing with delightful joy.

He pulled in a swift breath, stunned at the clarity of the memory. Such carefree, happy moments of his past were few and far between. To be reminded of one just now had his throat constricting with emotion.

With solemn purpose he gazed into her eyes and thanked her silently for that brief happy remembrance; then graced her with a rare smile that transformed him and he hoped showed his heartfelt gratitude.

"No, I thank you", she murmured softly, searching his face; and seeing there his intent was satisfied. She then, squirmed closer – the softness of her skin sending pleasant sensations tingling throughout his body.

As she laid her ear upon his chest, he could feel the beating of her heart pressed close to his ribs and she hugged him tight. "You have saved my life and now this." The smile and playfulness in her voice was evident and he hummed with good nature in acknowledgement; for perhaps in a way she had given him something beyond his life as well.

Earlier that evening they had walked hand in hand through this great, now echoing townhouse. They had gone room to room – only to stop and take in the breadth of her vast library. Cases of books covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Such a display would be considered impressive by any standard.

There in the middle of the room, she spun slowly and spoke proudly of her accomplishments; her students; and wondered about her uncertain future. How she would continue, the importance of women's independence. He watched mesmerized by her grace, as she walked the length of the wide cases and caressed the spines of book after book – as if to remember each volume, each lesson taught; science – history – poems of love and devotion.

When she touched the final book by the door, she reached out her hands to him; and when he grasped hold – escorted him to her bed chamber and together lost themselves as they traversed to some undiscovered place – if not one of joy or love, then one of mutual need.

And as they loved in sync with each other's rhythms his mind swirled with colors; with hope; with pleasure and after a time, when released from such heights wondered on a myriad of what ifs.

What if his dead wife had not been resurrected to seek out her revenge; what if d'Artagnan did not need him or he need his brothers; what if Thomas did not haunt him every waking moment and condemn him as he did now from the shadows of this very room, and berate him for being content, happy – hopeful, for just this moment in time while he unjustly lingered in limbo? What if all this could be set aside?

Would he consider….what?

When he looked to her again, she had shifted on her elbow to look down at him, a curious expression on her face; brows furrowed; a question on her lips. Hair hanging loose and long cascaded over her shoulder to brush his cheek. Her skin glowed pink and flushed red about her neck - the single flame illuminating her beauty on a nearby candle set upon the table. By God she was beautiful, he thought; drank in such loveliness and vowed to remember always this brief gift of happiness.

The gray of her eyes pierced his. He could read her true, and knew she wondered how it was that she lived; that she wanted to ask – press him for answers as to how it all came to be. Their shared memory of her standing amid smoke and heat – bound to a pole flashed between them. But he touched a finger to her lips to stay the query; then swept honey blond strands of hair from across her shoulder and felt for the beat of life at her neck, his thumb massaging the timing of its pulse.

She turned and kissed the palm of his hand; tears falling freely without shame. His stomach churned uncomfortably with regret; sorrow and something else – her suffering a tangible thing he wished could be negated; struck down as if it never happened.

She leaned down to kiss him gently on the lips, and he knew without reservation as she breathed her life into him, that he could find it in himself to love this woman; that her passionate nature drew him in like moth to flame. He had not hesitated to intervene and beg for her life. How could he explain it – articulate this rush of attraction; this beginning stage of what could be love; only for it to never be fulfilled?

Studying her now, his heart skipped a beat. He had felt this way once before, and it had not ended well. Anne had driven him to heights of ecstasy; to unimaginable acts of violence; and now lived to exact her retribution. Her hatred for him was well deserved for he was in part to blame for every wrong she committed. She was after all what he had made her.

But it was his mission now to hold her accountable for her part in Ninon's downfall as Richelieu's agent; for Thomas, Remy, and for any other poor soul she may have wreaked havoc on.

Just then, the image of her – skirts lifted; torn petticoats; his blood on her hands drifted over his tormented thoughts. She had helped to save his life, brought him much needed relief from agonizing anguish; but he was no good for her. Not while the past reached out from the grave and attempted to pull him under.

He searched her eyes and saw his deepest desires reflected back at him. Yes, in this moment they brought each other peace, and he kissed her back with fervor; determined to let the past lie – block it out; dismiss its hold on him for just a little while longer.

Rain pelted softly against the window, reminding them that soon the sun would rise and a new day would begin. He would leave this house with her – lock the door behind them, and escort her to the outskirts of the city – perhaps never to see her again. Never know what might have been.

Settling back to his pillow, he could feel her lips press against the now healed wound at his side – a permanent reminder of her presence in his life. Her whispered request of "Love me", tickled hot on his skin, and his desire resurfaced tenfold.

Athos shifted to face her and with permission given as open arms; fingers stroking soothingly through his hair, he once again lost himself in her welcome embrace; and traveled to that recently discovered state of passion – where only she alone could guide him.

* * *

Just needed a little more of Athos and Ninon! If only...right? Please review and let me know what you think. Once again – I have played loose with history, and hope it did not detract from the story. Thanks again for reading; reviewing; favorting; and following this story. It means a lot!


	12. Chapter 12

Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Precarious beginnings of a well-earned commission sends d'Artagnan on a fevered journey where threads of the past join with the present, then reach out to an unknown future.

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Home

The sudden downpour of heavy rain ended, leaving the earth sodden; muddy – the smell of wet dirt reminding him of home, the fields of Lupiac – green, lush and fertile. An image of his father, smiling after such a rain swept over him with a sort of joy; replacing the sadness and vision of death that rain usually brought him in the aftermath of his sorrow.

Touching the stiff new leather at his shoulder, d'Artagnan smiled inwardly and knew that in this moment his father would be proud of him and this great, great accomplishment. Closing his eyes, he sensed Alexander's presence and longed for the strong embrace, the kiss at his cheek and the gruff words of "well done".

The phantom warmth of his breath was so real that he sighed and swallowed the lump forming painfully in his throat.

Athos stood silently at his side and he felt grateful for the man's steady company and understanding. His poise and stoic bearing a welcome balm that brought him comfort. He could not have achieved this if not for his tutelage; advice and friendship.

Side by side they stood; shoulder to shoulder in the expansive doorway of the stables. Horses brayed and stomped their hooves as Jacques raced by to settle them down with grain and hushed reassurances. Rays of sunshine reappeared from behind wispy thin clouds; which dissipated and then floated away to leave d'Artagnan feeling light – hopeful and almost happy.

Almost happy.

The injury at his side pulled painfully on bruised skin and when he winced at the discomfort – could hear Constance's rebukes, her rejection of their love and frowned. She had turned him away. Chosen the comfort of married life, money and the materials that came with it – over the adventure that would have been theirs's together.

He grabbed his side and would have let out a sob of pain if not for Athos who squeezed his neck with pride and brotherhood. What would he have done this past year without him? Would he have survived his grief; the ever present hole left behind at his father's untimely death? Continued on this fantastic journey? Or gone back to his father's home and attempted to carve out a life at the mercy of the land?

What if he had never challenged this great man beside him?

Across the garrison yard Aramis and Porthos called out to them with sincere delight; smiles as bright as the warming sun. "Well, there is our new musketeer!" Porthos bellowed, and suddenly his sorrows, rebuked love, regrets all drained away.

"Shall we go and celebrate!" chimed in Aramis, who skirted and hopped around overflowing puddles to not mess his boots with the agility of a cat.

Looking up at his friend, d'Artagnan could not help but smile also, and whispered with quiet awe, "It is true then?" His most reverent dream come to fruition – his commission secured; a true brother now to the inseparables and servant of his King.

"Yes" Athos answered, and together they strode out to meet the others.

* * *

Of course the Wren was overcome with excitement. The place was packed and full to the brim with musketeers; recruits and patrons who just wanted to bask in the glory alongside the triumphant regiment of the King's royal guard.

They had won the competition with d'Artagnan as their champion; and he languished proudly in the glow of new found belonging as men pat him on the back with words of congratulations on their lips. Wine flowed freely and the glowing heat from the hearth had him giddy with acceptance and comradery.

Truly he was home.

Jaquez, Marcus and Renard rubbed his pauldron for good fortune; then laughed loud and hardy; complimenting him between drinks on his bravery and skill – teetering on the edge of inebriation. He laughed with them; swiped sweat from his forehead – a lightheaded wave of dizziness sending him crashing down to his seat.

Placing his head in his hands he groaned, took a deep breath and scanned the crowded room, glad to see that a good time was being had by all. Though his own energy level was flagging – the inn itself was at a fever pitch – full of boisterous, rowdy vitality.

Porthos commanded the center table vociferously winning at cards – taking all comers – rubbing his hand together with gleeful anticipation; his eyes alight with mischief – coin growing like tall grass at his elbows.

Aramis- holding a barmaid close to his side – recounted loudly to a group of half-dozen or so musketeers the epic battle with Labarge – stroke for stroke; every man hanging on to each word. d'Artagnan shook his head, and felt the room spin around him. He could feel the heat on his cheeks and neck; and wondered if he were already drunk – his head pounding along with the injury at his side. He reached for the point at his rib and barely remembered Labarge striking a glancing blow as they fought.

When he regained some equilibrium, only Athos – he noticed; amongst all the merriment, sat alone in the back of the room nursing a cup of wine – watching as if on guard. His face – a mask shrouded in aloof control. He wondered what Athos must be thinking. Had his mind fallen on his home, now destroyed; on the Comtesse de Larroque – who he obviously cared for; now gone – banished from Paris, perhaps never to be seen or heard from again?

He understood loss and unrequited love. Could this be why he sat alone amongst the gaiety? Or perhaps it was her he thought of – the wife long dead, now come to haunt him in flesh and blood.

A commotion at the entrance pulled his thoughts away from Athos and his melancholy state. Four Red Guards strode into the lion's den of musketeers with purpose – hands on the hilts of their swords – looking about the celebratory room with loathing. d'Artagnan shivered; touched his pauldron and felt an overwhelming sense of dread close in around him.

Standing quickly to his feet – trouble a dark shroud descending – he swayed unsteadily; and grabbed for the nearby table to right himself. As if on cue – Athos was at his side, and the sounds of joviality; storytelling and laughter ebbed to an eventual halt.

The four red cloaked men stood still amidst the silence and eyed the room with disdain – bodies tense; legs set wide apart, ready for action.

d'Artagnan reached instinctively for his own hilt; but felt Athos' steady hand engulf his and set it aside. All eyes studied the four with curiosity; caution and now sober intent – waiting for a word from their Lieutenant as to what was to happen next.

Stepping forward, Athos held up his hand to stay the room of anxious musketeers from taking action. Collectively men relaxed and the barmaids skittered to the outskirts of the room; while the innkeeper frowned with concern – fearful for this establishment.

"A drink for you gentlemen." he squeaked out, attempting to appease the four. "On the house, my good fellows – in the spirit of keeping the peace." When he received no response, Athos interjected, "If not a drink, then what is it you seek?" His voice a smooth stream- steady; calm and unhurried, contradicting the tenseness in the room.

A young dark haired guard – his features hardened with grief and anger stepped forward to address the room. "We seek to right a wrong musketeer!" Scanning the crowd, his gaze falling on d'Artagnan, he yelled out, "You have sullied the good name of the Red Guard for the last time. We seek retribution!"

A voice from within the crowd countered, "Good name? You speak of the Red Guard? I think not!" And laughter erupted like a tidal wave. d'Artagnan moved to step forward and accept the challenge – but Athos held out his arm; and then grabbed hold of his doublet to keep him still.

d'Artagnan looked to his mentor and ground out through clenched teeth, "He challenges me" – as the laughter around them began to die down.

Athos frowned; stared hard into d'Artagnan's eyes and between them in a moment spoke a conversation of restraint. Reluctantly d'Artagnan broke away from that stare and stood down – the order clear; there would be no duel here today.

"First Monroe wrongly accused and imprisoned, then our good Captain Trudeau – the best of us – dead by your incompetence; and now this – dishonor before Cardinal Richelieu and our King!"

"So you come here, to challenge a room full of musketeers – declared by our King to be the finest of regiments?" Porthos called out standing now to his feet – mirth and incredulous condensation dripping in his voice. Every man nodded in agreement and moved in closer to surround the four.

The Red Guard shook his head with vigor; withdrew his sword from its scabbard – pointed the tip at d'Artagnan and spat out, "No – I call out your champion!" and on that resounding statement the four Red Guard unsheathed their swords as well.

* * *

Out here in the cool night air – he felt invigorated; alive and overcome with odd sensations. Standing over his opponent he breathed in and out with such force that his chest shivered; his mouth went dry and blood rushed deafeningly in his ears.

When he took note of his surroundings – Aramis, Athos and Porthos stood behind him on this side street – forlorn, empty – deathly quiet. Their faces were like stone, hard – anticipating what he might do next, and readying themselves.

The three guards hovered nearby, their red cloaks hanging limp on sagging shoulders. Beneath the tip of his sword, lying on the ground, his neck strained; taunt – weapon out of reach, sprawled the belligerent challenger from the inn.

His body tingling with adrenaline d'Artagnan frowned and attempted to get his bearings; until he found Athos' green, granite gaze. He realized then that he had no memory of how he stood here now, victorious it seemed.

Teetering back and away he stumbled over his own feet – staggering to remain upright; tension and rage melting away. His body felt hot and cold at the same time as the cobblestones tilted underneath, as if rising up to greet him. A prick of acid caught at the back of his throat; and he swallowed hard to keep it down.

What was happening? How was he here?

Swiping sweat soaked bangs from his forehead, he looked again to the downed Red Guard as he made to sit up and reach for his weapon. Recovering, d'Artagnan kicked the sword away and held the tip of his blade at the man's heaving chest; swaying – his own legs trembling, about to give out.

Looking into those eyes, he remembered now. The rage, grief and hatred of this man, who had lost everything of meaning, came flooding back. The altercation in the inn, being called out – his own indignation and then….here. The battle itself was a vague hazy episode; a flurry of movement; clashing steel and blood.

He knew such grief – he thought and lowered his weapon to consider. There before him was himself a year ago; angry, hurt – beyond consolation. He had done the same – fought with every fiber of his being to assuage such anguish.

"Do you yield?" he whispered harshly; his voice bouncing off stone, traveling building to building along the desolate street.

The Red Guard sat up then, and reached for his arm – blood dripping freely through fingers and down his shirt sleeve. d'Artagnan reached for his own injury; feeling wetness there and flinched. His body tired, and weary – ready to collapse.

The three others bent low, not waiting for their comrade to concede and lifted him from the ground. Clearly now d'Artagnan could see blood not only at his arm, but also at the man's side; his leg and knew he could not possibly continue. He leaned heavily into his friends as they rallied to lift and carry him off.

As they moved away, the sounds of their boots straining under the weight, d'Artagnan could hear the man's pained retort reach him in eerie echoes. "Remember me musketeer. I am Marcheaux and one day…..one day, no matter how long it takes, I will have satisfaction." And then they were gone, lost among the shadows; Marcheaux's sobs reverberating in the dark, "I will have satisfaction!"

d'Artagnan watched them retreat, dazed; confused – unsure what to do next. A wave of heat encased his body and sapped his waning strength. Knees buckling, he lost all control of his limbs; and began an awkward descent to the street. He would have hit the earth hard if not for Athos who caught him beneath the arms and held him close.

Before losing all sense of awareness – he heard Athos murmur in his ear, "I have you."

* * *

The wind blew stiff and woke him from a scattered dream of Constance telling him goodbye, saying that she didn't really love him. A flirtation it was – nothing serious; her skirts swishing along the ground as a door slammed shut in her wake.

His heart was broken.

Standing carefully on the thin ledge of rock, he looked out over the horizon and beyond the lush of billowing green trees he could just make out Lupiac – home; his father's house, nestled within a lovely grove of purple and white wild flowers. Out of the chimney, smoke curled and beckoned him to come.

Rubbing his eyes to clear the wavy haze of his vision, he took a deep breath and looked down below from his perch. There a dazzling blue stream cut a path to where he truly belonged. The pauldron on his shoulder weighed heavy; his heart ached, and every bone in his body seemed to hurt with even the most minimal of movement.

Above him a stringent voice laced with care called to him, "d'Artagnan ….up here! Look this way. Can you hear me? Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" And there leaning over the jagged edge was Aramis; curls whipping about his face – hand out urging him to, "Take my hand, let me help you…climb! God is here with you; and I will not let you go."

But he was too weary to give the effort; so turned away, faced the setting sun and knew that instead of up, he needed to climb his way down to the bottom; find a way across the water and make his way home.

The pain at his side pierced him like a dagger; but he took a cleansing breath and began the climb down; calling up to Aramis – "I am sorry", and let gravity pull him along with rocks skittering alongside him.

* * *

The rocking motion was relentless and had him nauseated at every dip and rise. His stomach flipped flopped and with the heat, it had him gagging. Before he could stop himself, he sputtered up bile over the side of the boat; so much so that his ribs hurt from the effort.

Groaning, he lay down in the bottom of the boat and sobbed. He was so exhausted. His stomach rippled with cramps; his throat was parched and the continuous shifting of the boat only made it worse.

A large, cool hand cupped his cheek; and a quiet voice whispered, "Breathe – soon it all will be over, and this will be a distant memory." When he opened his eyes, Porthos was smiling and staring down at him with good natured warmth.

Pulling himself up to sit, the boat tilted slightly to the right and with a death grip he held on to the side as Porthos made his way to the bow. A single white sail fluttered above them; stood out starkly against the azure sky, and off in the distance he could see the foamy shoreline. Soon the gentle to and fro no longer churned his insides; and Porthos' solid presence eased his queasy stomach and calmed his nerves.

Together they traveled the stream that led to home.

"Thank you Porthos", he croaked; eyes pooled with gratitude. The big man passed over a skin filled with water and nodded for him to drink up. Fresh water – cool and crisp quenched his thirst and with a relieved sigh he drank it all with fervor.

Looking toward the shore a sense of happy anticipation engulfed him. Soon he would be at his father's house; and there was nothing he wanted more than to walk the land; sleep in his own bed; and have the company of Alexander d'Artagnan.

The boat languidly sailed along and d'Artagnan could feel the worry cascading from Porthos to meet him like crashing waves. "I'll be alright", he promised as the bottom hit sand and pebbles. Jumping out he looked back just in time to see Porthos drifting away – the ebb and flow pulling him back the way they had come.

And as he waved his goodbye, eager to turn and find the road home, Porthos called out to him, "Won't you stay?" and before he could reply, a thick fog rolled in; obscured his vision and all he could make out then was the lone sail – catching what was left of the evening breeze – before it too was lost to him.

* * *

Alexander met him at the gate; pulled him over the threshold onto d'Artagnan land; and hugged him with joyous abandon – lifting him fully from his feet – as if he were a child again. d'Artagnan embraced him back – long; hard and with tears in his eyes.

He was home.

His father's warm kiss at his cheek had him flushing red with pride. When he pulled back and touched his hand to the fleur de lis, d'Artagnan stood tall as if at attention. The gruff voice of his father bellowed out, "Well done". He let out a sigh of relief and fell back into his father's protective hold. All his worries lifted from his chest. Now he could breathe easy; and rest.

* * *

The wind from up here flew by in swift swirling gusts. So strong, it captured his breath; lifted his hair and cooled his hot skin. Out beyond these fields; past the fence – he wondered how fared Paris, the garrison, Captain Treville; his King who named him champion and ….Constance.

The stream from here was not so far, and Porthos – steady; calm Porthos came to mind. His good heart and kind nature a soothing wave of wellbeing he missed greatly. And then there was Aramis – out there somewhere atop the ravine; waiting with his faith to hold him up and pass on his strength.

Squinting hard against the breeze – down past the wild flowers and outside the gate, he could just make out a man standing with hat in hand; self-possessed, patient and still. He looked familiar and for a moment thought it might be Athos come to persuade him to return, and take up the pauldron.

"Athos?" he called out against the wind, but the man did not answer and so he thought he must be mistaken. Leaning his back against the bark of his childhood tree, he marveled at the magnificent sight that was home. Everything seemed ten times as beautiful; twice as bright – better than he could have ever imagined it. The weather was perfect; the sky pristine – the clouds whiter that white. He was happier than he had ever been in his whole life. Yes – he would stay here with Pere, work the land; marry a girl who loved him, and put his fanciful dreams aside.

From his favorite branch – he could hear his father yelling up to him, "Come down Charles from this blasted tree!" – a familiar chastisement that had him fondly chuckling with humor.

"There", he pointed down toward the gate. "You have someone here who waits. Go and greet him."

Suddenly with his feet now on solid ground he studied his father's face with concern; and countered warily, "Who is that waiting?"

"Someone I think who wants to take you back where you belong."

d'Artagnan turned to protest, but a firm hand on his shoulder stayed the outburst on his lips. "Charles – I am glad to see you; and you have made me very proud. To see you this way – brave; honorable; valiant does my heart good. But now it's time for you to go."

d'Artagnan felt the earth shift beneath his feet; and his father's gaze bore through him like fire. "You know this to be true."

And when he turned to dispel such a notion; to scream out that he did not wish to leave; that he must stay and wanted more than anything to never leave his side again- the wind changed course and he could truly see beyond the rose color that his father's home was charred with no plank left standing; his beloved tree toppled – the fields black and scorched.

His eyes now open – he wept openly with tears of sorrow, regret and loss.

With a gentle kiss on his temple, his father turned away and let the mid-morning mist encompass him. Over his shoulder, he called, "Be well my son – we will see each other again." d'Artagnan stood motionless; bereft alone at the gate. No, that wasn't true; there was Athos here watching him – his gaze afraid; apprehensive.

d'Artagnan studied him back, knew without words what Athos asked of him; and could not deny him. With a final look back, he murmured, "I love you Pere", and followed Athos beyond the gate closing it firmly behind him.

* * *

Together they traversed to the stream without a spoken word between them. At the water's edge they sat to wait side by side upon a boulder of stone. d'Artagnan sighed and felt heat rise up from his belly and said, "I am tired." Athos shared his water skin; removed the scarf from his neck and wiped sweat from his brow – his hands trembling; fearful of some unknown d'Artagnan could not fathom.

d'Artagnan grabbed hold of his wrist; smiled and asked, "Why are you afraid? I would gladly follow you anywhere." Athos searched his face, looking for what; he did not know and would only reply, "Rest."

When next he was aware the gentle to and fro of the boat woke him and as he made to sit up Porthos reached down to keep him still – "Quiet" he fondly fussed, and ruffled his sweaty hair. Pressure at his hand had him turning to see Athos with them in the boat, his face a myriad of emotions that made his stomach churn with anxiety.

"Everything is okay." Porthos pledged and squeezed his neck lightly.

"Rest", Athos added – and so he did.

At the bottom of the ravine his legs wavered; his heart hammered in his chest and he wondered aloud, "I cannot make it…can I?" But Porthos and Athos lifted his arms over their shoulders and held him up. "This is a piece of cake!" Porthos exclaimed with determination and up above Aramis leaned over the edge and yelled, "Come on now – I've been waiting here long enough."

And then they were, the three of them, traveling up, and up over slippery rock and sharp pointed edges with Aramis giving direction; soothing words of encouragement and sending prayers of good fortune their way. All the while Athos whispered, "Rest" – so he placed his head in the crook of the man's neck; sighed with relief and did what he asked without question.

* * *

When last he came to himself - his father's gate, the winding gentle stream, and the impossibly difficult climb up the ravine faded slowly away as if they were a farfetched unlikely dream. Replaced now with the infirmary – he laying on an uncomfortable cot; his body wet and sheets soaked through.

Surveying his surroundings, he frowned, attempting to understand why he was here. Nearby with the window open, a cool breeze floated in to dry his skin; and he shivered.

Suddenly Aramis appeared above him; and pushed wet plastered hair from his brow. "Your fever has broken", he surmised with a smile. "We have been waiting for you and it is good to see you." He moved away then to fetch water on the stand.

As he turned his head, Porthos grabbed his shoulder – the cup ready with water to squelch the dryness of his throat. "Here", he offered, and lifted his shoulders and head from the pillows with little effort. He drank heartily and sighed with contentment. "I told you yeah… a piece of cake; and here you are."

When he finished the cool satisfying water, Porthos laid him down with gentle care, and there at his side Athos sat, holding his hand in a vice like grip.

"You came for me", he rasped out and coughed to clear his throat.

"Yes", Athos assured, his voice cracking with emotion; and moved close to kiss his temple just as his father had upon letting him go. "We will talk tomorrow."

"So sleep", Aramis interjected, "and when next you wake the three of us will be here."

So, d'Artagnan drank in their presence, the three musketeers – truly his brothers now; and felt the grip of Athos' hand now at his elbow – rubbing soothingly to guide him down to sleep. He turned to his side and as he opened his mouth to inquire of his prized possession – saw that his pauldron lay close by within his reach.

He was a musketeer now. The future unknown but gladly welcome.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I apologize for such a long delay, but hope that you enjoyed the chapter. Please review and let me know what you think. (By the way, this chapter is a continuation of a chapter written for one of my stories, 'A Moment'.) Comments are most welcome!


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